•    \ 


CAP    SHEAF 


Btmble. 


BY    LEWIS    MYRTLE. 


REDFIELD, 

110  &  112  NASSAU-STREET,  NEW  YORK. 

1853. 


ENTERED,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  Year  One  Thousand 
Eight  Hundred  and  Fifty-three,  by  J.  S.  KEDFIELD,  in  the  Clerk's 
Office  of  the  District  Court,  for  the  Southern  District  of  New  York. 


A.  CUVXl.VGHAM,  S 

183  WILLIAM  STRICT,  N. V. 


TO   HER, 
WHOSE  SINGLENESS   OF  DEVOTION 

NO  CHANGE  CAN  AFFECT, 
AND   OF  THE   PROMPTINGS   OF   WHOSE   EARNEST  HEART 

THESE   PAGES   ARE  THE    GROWTH, 

THIS  BOOK 

IS  AFFECTIONATELY  DEDICATED  AND  INSCRIBED  BY 
THE  AUTHOR. 


1694432 


THIS  Book  has  nothing  like  an  Ambition.  It  is 
only  a  collection  of  such  simple  and  earnest 
Stories  as  may  find  brief  lodgment  in  the  reader's 
Heart.  The  very  fancies  that  run  through  it,  though 
they  can  lay  no  claim  to  brilliancy,  at  least  may 
ask  some  degree  of  favor  for  the  sake  of  the  feeling 
of  which  they  were  begot. 

In  a  day  so  fruitful  of  books  as  this,  there  are 
few  without  some  high  pretension.  There  is  nothing 
of  the  kind,  however,  to  this.  If  the  still  life  it 
pursues,  or  the  natural  sentiment  it  utters,  or  the 
simple  topics  it  illustrates,  shall  kindle  a  fancy  or 
warm  a  heart, — it  will  have  reached  its  end.  I  had 
no  higher  thought,  when  these  pages  were  first  put 
on  paper ;  and  I  have  no  higher  hope  now. 

While  Romance  and  Travel  open  broad  and  delight- 
ful walks  to  readers  everywhere,  the  hidden  by-paths 
may  not  be  without  their  own  quiet  pleasures ; — paths 
that  are  bordered  with  Heart's-Ease  and  Sweet-Brier, 


6  PREFATORY. 

and  fragrant  with  Hawthorn  and  Fern  ;  where  dews 
lie  freshest  on  leaves  and  grass ;  and  golden  sunshine 
nestles  in  the  swart  bosom  of  the  shadows. 

I  do  not  say  that  these  by-paths  in  literature  are 
new ;  but  they  are  not  overmuch  traveled,  and  that 
gives  them  almost  the  attractiveness  of  a  new  dis- 
covery. The  grass  grows  in  them  ;  and  they  look 
thus  greener.  The  flowers  one  plucks  in  them  smell 
sweeter,  and  seem  fresher.  In  fine,  the  life  that  lies 
all  along  them,  is  a  life  of  beauty,  —  and  simplicity, 
—  and  truth. 

The  Book  was  not  written  for  the  critics  ;  yet  if 
any,  or  all  of  it  shall  furnish  them  with  a  savory 
morsel,  I  wish  them  much  joy  of  their  repast.  While 
there  may  be  much  in  its  style,  or  its  temper,  that 
they  will  probably  order  to  be  recast, — I  still  feel  a 
secret  satisfaction  in  knowing  that  its  heart,  at  least, 
is  sound  to  the  core.  Not  a  line  of  it  can  be 
charged  with  an  affectation  of  feeling. 

And  in  the  earnest  hope  that  the  reader  will  be 
willing  to  respond  with  some  cordiality  to  its  tone 
and  its  topics, 

I  subscribe  myself,  simply  and  sincerely, — 

LEWIS  MYRTLE. 
NEW  YORK,  Nov.,  1852. 


CONTENTS. 


PACE. 

A  SHADOW  ON  THE  ROOF, 9 

WOODS, 32 

BUBBLES, 47 

SUMMER  RAIN, 62 

THE  AUTUMN  TINTS, 72 

THE  FIRST  SNOW, 85 

THE  FIRE  FIENDS, 95 

OLD  COUNTRY  INNS, 102 

UNDER  THE  TREES, 109 

RUTH, 119 

THE  LITTLE  RAZOR-MAN, 138 

THE  LONE  HEART, 147 

THE  POOR  SCHOLAR, 165 

THE  VILLAGE  FUNERAL, 184 

TRACKS  IN  THE  SNOW, 199 

ASPS  AND  FLOWERS, 210 

A  FROLIC  WITH  FORTUNE, 232 

A  COUSIN  FROM  TOWN, 260 

THE  OLD  WOMAN  OF  THE  COURT, 278 

A  HEART  EXHUMED, 298 


A   SHADOW   ON   THE   EOOF. 

HOME  is  a  foretaste  of  Heaven !     At  least,  so  I 
could  not  help  thinking,  while  the  fire-dogs 
glowed  with  the  bright  flame  that  jetted  against 
their  ruddy  cheeks. 

I  had  been  musing  on  the  endless  chances  there 
were  in  a  man's  life  ;  the  varied  views  we  take,  as 
we  get  on ;  the  ceaseless  turmoil,  that  bewilders 
us;  and  the  greedy  scramble,  that  jostles  us  this 
way  and  that : — and  I  thought  there  was  left  us 
one  nook  of  safety,  where  the  maddest  world-storms 
cannot  reach.  My  heart  grew  grateful ;  and  my 
fancies  ran  on  at  once  to  weave  into  the  tapestry 
of  my  thoughts  the  picture  of  the  Home  Spot, 
that  always  melts  us  into  love. 
1* 


10  CAP  SHEAF. 

Everybody  looks  forward  to  the  time  when  he 
shall  have  a  HOME.  No  matter  what  it  is,  or 
where  the  spot ;  no  matter  how  rich,  or  how  poor ; 
the  golden  atmosphere  that  hangs  about  the  name 
of  Home,  is  the  medium  through  which  we  view 
the  object  itself.  A  garret,  or  a  palace;  a  hovel, 
or  a  hall ;  pinching  poverty,  or  wasteful  wealth ; 
to  our  hearts  it  is  ever  the  same.  Only  let  it  be 
Home.  The  name  itself  is  a  magnet ;  and  all  our 
brightest  hopes,  like  glittering  steel-filings,  are 
caught  up  by  it  as  by  instinct.  It  binds  us  by 
cords  that  are  stronger  than  bands  of  iron;  by 
mystic  powers  above  all  worldly  rules,  beyond  all 
systems,  irresistible,  and  ever-enduring.  What 
statutes  so  binding  as  the  unwritten  code  of  the 
fireside ! 

I  drew  a  picture  of  an  odd  little  moss- 
speckled  roof,  dropped  down  in  a  clump  of  living 
green.  It  was  all  walled  in  with  dense  leaves  and 
flowers.  Vines  clambered  to  the  eaves,  twining  leafy 
garlands  about  the  columns  on  their  way,  and  hang- 
ing trembling  bunches  of  blossoms  just  over  my 
head.  Honeysuckles  poured  rich  streams  of  fragrance 
into  the  little  parlor  from  out  their  ruby  goblets ; 
and  gadding  sprays  burst  through  the  opened  win- 
dow in  upon  the  floor.  A  neat  piazza  belted  the 
building,  around  which  grew  an  intertwisted  lattice 
of  leafy  shelter.  There  was  a  low  and  broad  bench 


A  SHADOW   ON  THE   ROOF.  11 

on  the  piazza,  where  three  might  comfortably  sit  in 
the  cool  of  the  summer  evenings,  and  drink  in  the 
exhilarating  draught  that  drew  through  the  screen. 

I  imagined  I  sat  on  that  bench  already. 

A  lawn  of  the  deepest  emerald  stretches  down  to 
the  road,  threaded  by  but  a  single  walk,  on  either 
side  of  which  the  rich  turf  rolls  itself  up  in  smooth 
and  full  ridges.  Clumps  of  syringas  stand  like 
sentries  here  and  there,  and  the  air  is  loaded  with 
their  sweet  fragrance.  A  dwarf  fir  on  one  side, 
and  a  dwarf  fir  on  the  other.  No  tawdry-looking 
flower-beds,  laid  out  at  such  pains  to  catch  the 
vacant  eye ;  no  gaudy  and  glaring  flowers,  to  inspire 
only  discontent  by  their  contrast  with  the  unpre- 
tending green  all  around  them  : — only  wild-roses, — 
honeysuckles,  —  trumpet-creepers,  —  and  luxuriant 
woodbines.  They  fling  a  leafy  veil  all  over  the 
spot.  They  wreathe  the  posts  ;  shadow  the  light 
screen ;  fringe  the  casements ;  hide  the  rough  an- 
gles of  carpentry ;  and  thatch  the  low  roof  with 
their  ten  thousand  leaves. 

Behind  this  little  homestead,  that  now  seems  to 
rise  out  of  the  living  wood-coals  before  me, — there 
is  a  carefully  plotted  garden;  where  the  squash- 
vines  run  riot  over  the  mellow  soil,  and  on  the 
rough  back  of  the  old  stone  wall ;  and  bees  keep 
up  their  busy  hum  all  through  the  summer  day 
among  the  yellow  squash-blossoms ;  and  the  airy 


12  CAP  SHEAT. 

humming-bird  daintily  sips  honey  and  dew  from 
the  white  and  scarlet  bean-blossoms ;  and  the  green 
and  plump  currants  hang  in  myriad  clusters,  for 
the  length  of  the  garden  avenue. 

A  little  gate  swings  back  at  your  touch,  and 
shuts  itself  as  you  enter.  A  clean  and  hard  walk 
conducts  you  to  the  extreme  end  of  the  ground. 
There  are  no  terraces;  no  uplands ;  nor  lowlands; 
nor  miry,  swampy  places.  It  is  all  an  unbroken 
plain,  into  which  you  can  almost  step  from  your 
kitchen  door.  It  is  your  little  kitchen  farm  ;  and 
the  owner  of  a  thousand  acres  boasts  not  more  of 
his  vast  heaps,  than  you  do  of  your  little  stores. 

What  phalanxes  of  fruit-trees !  The  rich  dam- 
sons look  plump  and  pulpy,  in  among  the  leaves ; 
and  white,  and  red,  and  black  cherries  are  bursting 
out  in  bunches  from  the  limbs ;  and  pears,  that 
will  soon  moisten  your  palate  with  their  delicious 
juices, — are  swelling,  and  softening,  and  ripening 
in  the  sun ;  and  smooth-cheeked  peaches  are  begin- 
ning to  wear  their  most  tempting  blushes,  as  the 
down  begins  to  wear  away ;  and  the  luscious  green- 
ings are  thrusting  their  round  heads  through  the 
glossy  leaves,  to  get  a  word  of  commendation  from 
their  owner ;  and  the  grapes  are  forming  in  long 
clusters  on  the  vines  that  run  over  yonder  trellised 
arbor. 

A  neat  row  of  white  hives  is  sheltered  from  the 


A   SHADOW   ON  THE   ROOF.  13 

cutting  edge  of  the  north,  wind  by  the  wall,  out 
from  which  streams  a  steady  line  of  little  laborers 
all  through  the  day.  They  buzz  in  the  squash- 
blossoms,  and  hum  drowsily  about  the  bean-flowers. 
They  people  the  cherry,  and  plum,  and  ruddy 
apple-blows,  and  wing  their  way  over  into  the  adja- 
cent field,  where  the  sweet  white-clover  blooms, 
and  beds  of  thyme  breathe  out  their  balm.  All 
day  long  they  keep  at  their  work ;  up  before  you 
in  the  morning,  and  hardly  quiet  when  you  loiter 
in  your  garden  at  evening.  Their  street  is  never 
silent  nor  deserted,  while  Summer  reigns  in  the 
fields  and  gardens. 

You  own  a  rich  meadow  beyond  that  pasture, 
and  the  grass  is  already  rolling  like  waves  in  the 
sweeping  breeze.  Your  heart  swells,  to  see  it  glis- 
ten so  in  the  sun  ;  and  you  confess  to  yourself,  that 
there  is  a  secret  joy  in  the  very  thought  that  it  is 
yours.  A  few  trees  dot  the  pasture-land,  and  pa- 
tient cows  stand  chewing  their  cuds,  and  stamping 
their  hoofs,  in  the  shade.  They  look  mildly  at 
you,  as  you  pass,  but  never  stop  grinding  the  cud. 
You  almost  wonder  if  they,  like  yourself,  have 
"  sweet  and  bitter  fancies !" 

A  belt  of  wood  bounds  your  pasturage  on  the 
north  side,  where  you  often  go  with  your  young 
wife,  on  these  balmy  mornings  in  June,  and  gather 
primroses,  and  violets, — or  saunter  thoughtfully  in 


14  CAP  SHEAF. 

the  shadows.  A  thousand  memories  your  lips  can- 
not fashion  into  expression,  hang  up,  like  golden 
fruitage,  among  those  old  tree-boughs,  and  linger 
about  the  aisles.  You  feel  that  you  know — 

"  Each  lane,  and  every  alley  green, 


Dingle,  or  bushy  dell,  of  this  wild-wood, 
And  every  bosky  bourn  from  side  to  side, — 
Your  daily  walks,  and  ancient  neighborhood." 

A  noisy  brook  riots  through  the  solitude,  curling 
its  waters  darkly  beneath  some  gnarled  old  root, 
and  leaping  up  to  kiss  the  leaves  of  the  wild- vines 
that  dangle  from  the  branches.  Its  noisy  echoes 
people  the  place.  It  washes  over  shining  pebbles, 
— slips  between  rank  sedges,  upon  a  muddy  bed, — • 
steals  softly  through  the  emerald  turf, — and  rattles 
off  with  a  gay  laugh,  and  a  saucy  clapping  of  its 
hands,  down  by  the  fence,  and  away  through  the 
low  meadow. 

Home,  thought  I,  taking  a  new  start  in  my 
musings,  is  not  altogether  without  doors  ; — and,  with 
this  thought,  I  began  to  paint  the  inner  Home  Life, 
that  fuses  all  our  thoughts,  in  its  mystic  crucible, 
into  thoughts  of  Love. 

A  wife ! — a  young  wife, — all  love !  The  little 
cottage  is  full  of  sunshine.  There  never,  surely, 
were  such  smiles  before  ;  never  such  musical  laugh- 
ter, bubbling  all  the  way  up  from  the  heart.  She 
reads  to  you,  when  you  are  restless  and  ill ;  and 


A  SHADOW   ON  THE  ROOF.  15 

you  read  to  her  in  turn,  when  she  is  weary  with 
the  never-broken  round  of  household  cares.  She 
watches  your  breathing,  when  you  are  curtained  in 
the  sick-room ;  binds  up  your  head  with  damp  and 
cool  bandages  ;  places  a  wine-glass  of  fresh  flowers 
on  the  little  stand  beside  your  bed ;  and  talks  to 
you  in  the  low  music  of  her  soft  and  melting  voice. 

She  is  as  airy  as  a  Sprite,  and  as  graceful  as  a 
fawn  ;  yet  she  is  none  too  ethereal  to  repay  your 
love  with  genial  sympathy,  and  welcome  words, 
and  patient,  self-denying  deeds.  She  does  her  hair 
in  papers  to  please  your  boyish  whim,  but  never 
breaks  a  link  of  the  chain  that  binds  her  heart  to 
the  Home  Hearth.  She  chats  with  you  of  Mon- 
taigne,— and  Suckling, — and  Spencer, — and  sweet 
Jeremy  Taylor ;  and  drinks  in  your  syllables,  when 
you  talk  to  her  of  Cordelia, — and  Corinne, — of  Jean 
Jacques,  and  Coleridge,  and  Keats  ; — yet  you  never 
harbor  the  suspicion  that  she  is  a  blue. 

And  she  always  dresses  so  charmingly,  too! 
Nothing  can  surpass,  for  sweet  and  unpretending 
grace,  those  summer  morning  costumes,  in  which 
she  trips  out  through  the  open  door,  and  slips  her 
dainty  hand  through  your  arm  for  an  early  walk. 
Her  throat  is  as  fair  as  the  fairest  alabaster ;  and 
the  scarlet  just  tinges  her  cheeks  with  matchless 
beauty;  and  as  she  looks  at  you  so  lovingly  from 
out  those  large,  dark,  dreamy  eyes,  you  almost  un- 


16  CAP  SHEAF. 

consciously  draw  her  closer  to  your  side,  and  press 
your  lips  to  the  forehead  of  your  child-wife. 

It  is  home,  wherever  she  is.  If  you  stroll  with 
her  down  the  green  lane,  chasing  the  playing  sun- 
blotches  that  fall  on  your  path — your  cottage,  and 
all  its  wealth,  is  in  the  lane  with  you.  Without 
her,  it  is  home  nowhere.  You  seem  to  lose  your 
reckoning.  The  sun  is  blotted  out  of  the  sky. 
You  grope  your  way.  The  birds  do  not  sing.  You 
see  no  flowers, — nor  silver-winged  insects — nor 
gaudy  butterflies.  Your  heart  swells  with  misgiv- 
ings for  her,  lest  some  impossible  harm  has  come 
nigh  her.  And  your  spirits  grow  weary,  and  faint; 
and  your  thoughts  brood  in  desolate  places;  and 
your  hold  on  life  grows  weaker,  and  weaker ; — till 
you  catch  her  smile  again  in  the  low  doorway,  or 
fling  your  arms  around  her  at  the  little  wicket. 

Home  is  Heaven — say  you  to  yourself, — as  you 
draw  your  boots  at  evening,  and  in  slippered  feet 
sit  down  to  hear  the  simple  story  of  her  day's  life. 
She  draws  her  chair  beside  your  own — and  looks 
alternately  in  the  glowing  fire,  and  your  delighted 
eyes. 

Foolish  little  creature ! — you  tell  her ;  she  sees 
only  herself  in  your  eyes  !  It  is  conceit ! 

And  she  will  shake  her  head  at  you  so  playfully, 
— and  lay  her  little  white  hand  over  your  mouth 
so  lovingly, — and  in  such  a  childish  tone,  tell  you 


A   SHADOW   ON   THE   ROOF.  17 

that  you  are  her  "  naughty  boy," — that  she  makes 
you  love  her  ten  times  the  more,  in  very  spite  of 
yourself. 

As  you  sit  before  the  gleaming  hearth,  you  read 
to  her  from  large  books  of  travels,  or  from  charm- 
ing and  simple  poems,  or  from  some  sad  and  touch- 
ing tales ;  and  when  you  suddenly  look  up,  you 
unexpectedly  see  the  tears  swimming  in  her  eyes. 
You  stop  to  ask  her  what  it  is  that  so  saddens*her ; 
but  the  sunshine  instantly  breaks  out  in  the  midst 
of  the  April  rain,  and  she  only  laughs  at  you  for 
your  inquisitive  folly.  And  then  you  tell  her,  half 
seriously  and  half  in  jest,  that  woman  is  just  what 
she  is  now, — half  smiles,  and  the  other  half  tears. 
For  your  impudence  you  get  a  kiss,  and  struggle 
valiantly  to  free  yotirself  from  her  embrace.  But 
your  release  is  only  on  condition  that  she  is  ex- 
cepted  from  your  remark.  And  in  a  sudden  im- 
pulse again,  you  confess  that  there  is  no  truth  at 
all  in  the  libel  you  have  just  uttered. 

Your  friends  wonder  how  it  is,  that  some  men 
can  stumble  on  such  a  mine  of  happiness  as  you 
have ;  and  in  the  midst  of  their  compliments  and 
self-reproaches,  they  get  urgent  invitations  to  visit 
you  as  often  as  they  will.  And  then  they  protest, 
that  your  -dear  Maggie  is  so  charming ;,  and  has  so 
much  grace ;  and  presides  at  table  with  such  sim- 
ple dignity !  They  will  tell  you,  when  you  stroll 


18  CAP  SHEAF. 

with  them  out  on  the  piazza,  they  would  have  mar- 
ried long  ago,  if  they  could  only  have  been  assured 
of- 

You  interrupt  them  at  this  point.  You  know 
that  it  had  better  remain  unspoken.  It  is  flattery 
you  can  bear  but  little  better  than  Maggie  herself. 

Your  relations  come  a  great  way  to  see  you  in 
your  new  and  quiet  home : — some  to  congratulate, 
— some  to  advise  and  forewarn, — and  some  to 
study  out  the  secret  weaknesses.  But  they  are  all 
alike  melted  by  the  magic  of  her  simple  and  ear- 
nest love.  Their  cynical  syllables  die  on  their  lips. 
They  forget  all  their  own  perplexities,  in  the  sun- 
shine of  your  complete  happiness.  They  even 
become  envious,  and  almost  tell  you  so.  But  that 
they  need  not  do :  you  can  read  it  in  their  looks. 

Maggie  is  perfection, — they  say  to  themselves. 
Never  need  a  man  have  a  better  wife.  Never 
found  man  a  truer  one. 

But  she  is  only  a  child  ! 

Ah !  would  they,  then,  rob  you  of  the  untold 
wealth  of  her  early  love? — of  the  fragrance  of  her 
freshest  feelings  ? — of  the  dew,  of  which  you  found 
her  young  heart  so  full  ? — Can  there  be  no  love, 
except  the  fruit  of  policy  ? — no  marriages,  but 
those  of  convenience  ? — no  heart-riches,  save  those 
of  years  ?  Is  your  child- wife  any  the  less  a  woman, 
because  her  love  is  so  undivided  ? — any  the  less  a 


A  SHADOW   ON  THE  ROOF.  19 

helpmeet,  because  she  is  such  an  innocent? — any 
the  less  a  blessing,  because  she  knows  the  world 
only  through  you  ? 

Must  our  hearts  be  torn,  and  seared,  and  probed, 
and  worn  with  the  iron, — before  we  can  learn  to 
love  ?  Doth  profounder  happiness  lie  in  the  broad 
ways  of  world-wisdom,  than  broods  all  along  the 
by-ways  of  innocence?  Can  any  statutes  limit 
the  impulses  of  the  heart  that  is  early  inclined  to 
love?  Can  there  be  no  maturity,  then,  even  in 
childishness? — no  bliss,  except  it  be  embittered 
with  the  aloes  of  a  cruel  experience  ? 

You  reason  your  heart  into  conclusions  that 

abundantly  satisfy  you,  and  leave  your  near-sighted 
relations  to  conclude  what  they  will.  So  you  are 
but  strengthened  in  your  happiness,  and  grounded 
in  your  hope  of  the  future, — it  is  enough.  They 
do  not  see  through  your  eyes.  Their  hearts  do  not 
throb  like  yours.  They  would  laugh  at  you  re- 
morselessly for  your  fine  sentiments ;  and  tell  you, 
with  a  profoundly  wise  wag  of  their  heads, — Love 
is'nt  bread  and  butter  1 

But  what  of  that  ?  What  care  you  ?  You  re- 
tort— to  yourself,  of  course, — But  what  blessing 
would  bread  and  butter  be  without  -Love  ?  And 
you  stoutly  resolve,  laying  aside  the  tenderness  of 
your  feelings  for  the  moment,  that  you  will  make 
your  Home  Life  a  deep  sermon  for  these  blind  rela- 


20  CAP   SHEAF. 

tions ; — and  that  each  year  shall   be  a  new  and 
brighter  page  for  them  to  peruse. 

Your  and  your  wife's  heart  are  knit  by  a 

new  tie : — stronger,  deeper,   fuller,  than  any  you 
have  yet  known. 

She  shows  you  her  infant ;  and  begs,  by  the  ten- 
der looks  of  her  moistened  eyes,  that  you  will  love 
it  for  her  sake. 

Ay,  you  respond, — and  for  its  own,  too  ! 

It  is  a  girl.  It  comes  to  you  like  an  angel  in  a 
dream.  It  has  the  innocent,  yet  mysterious  smile 
of  a  seraph.  You  lean  long  over  it  while  it  sleeps, 
and  your  heart  goes  up  to  God  in  a  psalm  of 
thanksgiving. 

A  new  root  has  struck  into  the  heart-soil.  You 
feel  that  you  must  watch  it  patiently,  and  guard  it 
with  the  tenderest  solicitude.  It  is  a  part  of  your 
child  wife ;  it  is  a  part  of  yourself.  Your  souls 
have  been  knit  mysteriously  together,  and  this  is 
the  new  form  they  have  taken.  Oh,  how  you  yearn 
towards  it  already  !  How  you  wish  it  could  receive 
into  itself  the  crowded  feelings  that  swell  your 
heart !  How  you  desire  that  you  could  read  the 
hidden  history  of  its  spirit  life,  and  satisfy  yourself 
that  it  is  really  an  offshoot  from  your  own  soul ! 
And  yet,  there  hangs  a  strange  feeling  about  you, 


A  SHADOW   ON   THE  EOOF.  21 

that  it  can  be  no  other  than  the  twin-soul  of  your- 
self and  your  dear  Maggie. 

"  A  babe  in  a  house,  is  a  well-spring  of  pleasure." 

So  the  poet  tells  you,  and  so  your  heart  believes. 
The  countenance  of  your  wife  tells  you  so.  Her 
cares  are  doubled;  but  her  troubles  are  divided. 
Your  sympathies  are  instinctively  more  ready,  and 
full,  and  effective,  for  her;  and  the  burdens,  in 
consequence,  only  become  the  lighter.  She  does 
not  now^top  so  often,  to  humor  your  little  caprices ; 
but  your  caprices,  you  find,  have  all  vanished. 
You  do  not  now  exact  so  much  of  her  precious 
time.  You  readily  give  it  all  up  to  another.  Ay, 
— and  you  give  up  very  much  of  your  own  pre- 
cious time,  too. 

The  little  cottage  was  full  of  sunshine  before : 
now  it  is  all  ablaze.  A  new  life  has  begun  within 
it.  A  mysterious  germ  has  suddenly  shot  up  be- 
neath the  little  roof-tree.  What  was  before  only  a 
pictured  fancy,  has  now  become  a  living  fact. 
Your  tenderness  has  budded  into  a  palpable  form. 
Your  love  has  become  impersonated.  Mysteries 
are  expanding,  and  ripening  into  experiences.  The 
wealth  of  your  heart  you  can  now  hold  in  your 
hands.  And  still  the  mystery  lurks  in  the  revela- 
tion ;  and  the  dream  sleeps  in  the  reality  ;  and  the 
spirit  does  not  altogether  reveal  itself  in  the  living 


22  CAP  SHEAF. 

form.  You  catch  only  bright  and  broken  glimpses ; 
the  brighter,  because  broken. 

And  this  is  the  study  that  Heaven  has  given 
your  heart.  It  will  surely  serve  to  perplex  you 
more  and  more,  every  day  of  your  life ;  and  the 
more  accustomed  to  your  outward  senses  it  be- 
comes, the  less  will  your  heart  have  learned  of  its 
real  nature.  And  it  is  by  so  divine  a  mystery, 
that  God  has  promised  to  keep  your  heart  full  of 
joy,  while  yet  it  continues  to  hunger  for  more. 

But  time  does  not  stop  for  your  happiness. 

It  rather  seems  envious  of  your  possession. 

What  a  calm,  quiet  day,  is  the  day  of  the  Christ- 
ening !  How  sweetly  your  little  cherub  looks,  in 
that  snowy  lace  cap !  And  how  she  makes  all  the 
spectators  smile,  as  she  throws  out  her  chubby 
hands,  and,  with  bubbling  syllables,  looks  up  so 
earnestly  into  the  face  of  the  white-robed  clergy- 
man !  How  the  soft  air  of  the  morning, — the  fra- 
grant drifts  from  the  clustering  roses  and  clumps  of 
lilacs, — and  the  mellow  warmth  of  the  bright  sun- 
shine,— all  help  to  swell  the  joy  of  your  heart,  till 
it  seems  that  it  must  at  length  overflow  in  tears ! 

The  baby  goes  before,  in  the  arms  of  the  maid ; 
and  Maggie, — now  dearer  to  you  than  ever, — lean- 
ing on  your  arm,  follows  close  behind.  Your  spirits 
are  all  in  a  glow.  You  scent  the  blossoms,  and  tell 
your  wife  how  ravishingly  sweet  they  "are  to  the 


A  SHADOW  ON  THE  ROOF.  23 

senses,  though,  she  knows  it  quite  as  well  as  your- 
self. You  look  up  into  the  stainless  bosom  of  the 
sky,  and  down  again  to  the  earth.  Your  eyes  chase 
swarming  butterflies,  and  you  fancy  for  the  moment 
that  the  flowers  have  taken  wings.  You  peep  over 
into  neighboring  gardens,  and  across  rolling  lawns. 
And  then  your  eyes  come  back  to  your  wife  again, 
and  you  draw  her  still  closer  to  your  side. 

"Be  careful  not  to  stumble!" — you  caution  the 
maid. 

Maggie  releases  herself  from  your  arm  for  a 
moment,  and  takes  a  few  hasty  steps  forward  to 
see  that  the  child  is  safe.  She  lays  her  own  cam- 
bric kerchief  over  its  face,  that  the, garish  sunlight 
may  not  weaken  its  eyes, — and  is  at  your  side 
again. 

You  ask  yourself  if  ever  two  loving  hearts 

were  so  happy  before  ! 

Your  little  Alice  soon  becomes  the  pet  of  the 
whole  neighborhood.  Children  drop  in  at  the  cot- 
tage on  their  way  to  school,  and  ask  to  see  "the 
baby."  And  maids  from  distant  houses  bring  other 
babies  to  see  this  beautiful  wonder  of  yours ;  and 
you  laugh  till  you  cry,  to  see  the  inexpressibly 
wise  looks  with  which  they  will  regard  each  other. 
You  catch  her  up,  in  one  of  your  sudden  impulses, 
and  toss  her  -quite  to  the  ceiling ;  and  she  will  be 
so  full  of  glee  with  your  playful  effort,  that  her  fat 


24  CAP  SHEAF. 

little  arms  will  instantly  go  up  to  you  again,  for  a 
repetition  of  the  fun. 

Books ! — what  are  books  to  you  now  ?  There  is 
not  a  tithe  of  the  life  on  all  their  pages,  that  you 
read  every  moment  in  the  face  of  your  own  off- 
spring. And  how  burdensome  become  your  daily 
duties,  at  thinking  of  the  hours  that  must  elapse 
before  you  can  see  your  idol  child  again.  How 
heavily  lag  the  moments  between  morning  and 
afternoon.  You  quite  begrudge  time  of  the  hap- 
piness of  which  it  is  robbing  you.  No  weary, 
heart-saddened  school-boy  ever  looked  forward 
more  wistfully  to  his  dismissal. 

Your  child  at  length  syllables  your  name 

—"papa!" 

What  a  fresh  joy ! 

To  feel  that  you  are  recognized  by  a  new  spirit ; 
that  your  very  smiles  are  at  last  rightly  interpreted ; 
that  your  love  is  beginning  to  bud  and  blossom  in 
the  warmth  of  home  ! 

To  know  that  your  day-dreams  are  faster  and 
faster  ripening  into  realities ;  that  what  you  once 
regarded  as  a  beautiful  myth,  is  every  day  becom- 
ing less  a  fable ;  that  the  ripe,  red  bud,  is  steadily 
coming  through  the  parted  leaves ! 

Never  was  there  such  a  child  before ! 

Never,  you  think,  was  there  so  devoted  a  father. 
You  carry  it  to  the  door  in  your  arms,  and  let  its 


A  SHADOW   ON  THE   ROOF.  25 

ruthless  little  hands  crush  the  swinging  bells  of  the 
fragrant  columbines.  You  learn  it  to  creep  about 
upon  the  thick  carpet,  pushing  before  it  smooth 
and  red-lipped  sea-shells.  You  teach  it  to  pick 
open  your  lips  with  its  playful  fingers,  and  reward 
it  by  a  song  beginning  with — "Bah!  bah!  black 
sheep !"  You  blow  kisses  into  its  dimpled  neck, 
till  it  hiccoughs  for  violent  laughter. 

As  you  sing  it  to  sleep,  it  will  open  faintly  its 
drowsy  lids,  and  hum  with  a  baby  discord  the  last 
syllables  of  your  lullaby.  And  when  it  has  finally 
sunk  into  deep  slumber,  you  gaze  long  and  ear- 
nestly upon  its  passionless  face,  and  silently  pray 
God  it  may  long  keep  your  heart  as  fresh  and  pure 
as  it  is  at  this  moment.  And  then  your  dear  Mag- 
gie comes  into  the  room,  and  looks  into  the  shaded 
face,  and  whispers,  as  if  in  the  holiest  confidence  to 
you, — "  She's  asleep !" 

Maggie  prepares  the  cradle,  and  into  its  depth 
you  carefully  lay  your  treasure.  It  partly  turns 
its  head,  as  you  move  to  lay  it  down, — but  the 
sleep  is  unbroken.  Your  wife  throws  a  long  veil 
over  its  face,  and  you  both  leave  the  room  together. 

And  are  there  any  noisy  world-joys,  that 

usurp  the  reign  of  a  man's  heart,  at  all  comparable 
to  so  simple  a  joy  as  this  ?  Sleeps  there  anywhere 
a  fountain  so  full  of  sweet  and  clear  waters  as 
here  ?  Can  a  man  from  any  source  so  readily  bring 
2 


26  CAP  SHEAF. 

down  the  fertilizing  dew  of  heaven  upon  the  soil 
of  his  heart  ?  Is  busy  street-life  as  fruitful  in  deep 
and  abiding  happiness,  as  this  innocent,  almost 
child-like  Home  Life  ?  Doth  the  ring  of  dollars 
echo  one  half  as  pleasantly  as  the  ring  of  your 
musical  baby -laugh  ? 

Tell  me,  busy  world-schemer,  if  all  your  successful 
speculations  can  compensate  your  inner  heart  for 
the  remorse  that  must  ever  gnaw,  when  you  reckon 
up  the  few  short  hours  you  spend  at  your  hearth  ? 
— if  the  hollow  voices  of  men  do  not  mock  all  your 
hopes,  when  a  swift  memory  of  Home  rushes  over 
your  brain? — if  the  fruits  of  success  do  not  turn 
to  dry  ashes  on  the  lips  of  enjoyment,  as  your 
heart  reproaches  you  with  their  uncounted  cost  ? 

But  the  scene  suddenly  shifts.  You  are  in 

the  little  nursery.  The  curtains  are  all  closely 
drawn,  and  the  light  is  subdued  and  sombre. 

Your  angel-child  lies  on  the  bed.  Her  face  is 
burning  with  feverish  fires.  Her  hands  are  hot, 
and  her  head  throbs  with  the  fever.  But  her  lips 
are  parched  and  colorless.  The  dreamy  eye  has 
lost  its  lustre.  She  tosses  her  hands  about  restlessly, 
and  murmurs  faint  and  broken  syllables.  Her 
breathing  is  short,  and  fearfully  quick. 

You  bend  over  the  bed,  and  lay  your  own  cheek 
close  to  her  hot  cheek,  and  ask  her,  in  a  sad  whis- 


A  SHADOW   OX  THE   EOOF.  27 

per,  if  she  is  very  sick, — as  if  she  could  catch  the 
meaning  of  your  words.  But  she  interprets  the 
caress,  though  the  words  go  unheeded  by  her. 

Maggie  stands  by  you,  and  you  gaze  long  and 
anxiously  at  your  child  together.  You  both  trem- 
ble, to  see  that  the  expression  has  died  out  from 
her  eyes.  You  fear  far  more  than  you  dare  trust 
to  words,  when  you  behold  their  growing  glassiness. 
Your  wife  stoops  down  and  kisses  the  child's  fore- 
head, and  gently  smooths  back  its  straggling  hair, 
and  talks  mournfully  to  it  of  sickness,  and  tells  it, 
tremulously,  she  hopes  it  will  soon  be  better  again. 

You  cannot  stay  to  listen,  and  to  witness,  longer. 
Your  eyes  are  growing  moist,  and  you  dash  away 
a  glittering,  tear,  as  you  glide  swiftly  through  the 
door. 

The  doctor  meets  you  on  the  embowered  little 
piazza.  He  is  a  kind  and  gentle  man,  and  you 
place  full  confidence  in  his  skill. 

"Doctor,"  you  say,  "  save  my  child !" 

He  has  not  a  word  for  you  in  reply,  but  walks 
steadily  in.  There  is  a  terrible  earnestness  in  his 
tread.  It  smites  upon  your  sore  heart  fearfully. 
You  have  not  the  courage  to  follow  after  him,  but 
remain  on  the  little  bench  on  the  piazza.  The 
moments  seem  like  hours  to  you.  You  wish  he 
would  return  again;  and  yet  you  have  not  the 
heart  to  go  back  and  learn  the  fate  of  your  off- 


28  CAP  SHEAF. 

spring.     You  dread  to  hear  even  the  best,  fearing 
it  may  be  the  worst. 

Again  in  the  nursery. 

Your  darling  child  is  dead, — just  gone! 

Oh !  was  ever  such  wo ! 

Maggie  throws  herself  upon  your  breast,  and 
buries  her  face  from  your  sight.  You  hear  her  low 
moans,  and  feel  the  deep,  strong  throes  of  her 
agony.  Now  it  is  that  you  feel  the  need  of  a  strong 
arm  on  which  to  lean  yourself. 

But  you  have  no  words.  They  would  but  vainly 
mock  your  grief.  Your  sorrows  are  dumb ;  they 
cannot  find  their  way  to  your  lips.  Nothing  now 
but  silence — and  sobs — and  tears. 

You  gaze  at  the  face  of  your  dead  child,  stand- 
ing by  the  bedside, — and  your  grief  looms  up  big 
and  gloomy  before  you.  You  would  cast  off  your 
hold  on  life  altogether.  The  bud  has  been  blasted 
before  it  had  time  to  round  into  the  fullness  of 
maturity. 

But  another  moan  from  your  equally  bereaved 
wife,  recalls  you  to  yourself;  and  you  now  feel  that 
you  are  bound  to  her  by  a  double  bond,  that  will 
grow  stronger  through  your  lifetime.  You  keep 
your  eyes,  however,  still  fixed  upon  your  dead 
child ;  and  the  sad  lines  of  the  Poet  sing  in  your 
sadder  heart, — 


•  -.  *  • 

A  SHADOW  ON  THE  ROOF.  29 

"  There  is  no  fold,  however  watched  and  tended, 

But  one  dead  lamb  is  there  ; 
There  is  no  fireside,  howsoe'er  defended, 
But  has  one  vacant  chair." 

It  is  as  bright  and  balmy  a  morning  in 

summer,  as  ever  dawned. 

The  odors  of  the  lilacs  and  laburnums  float 
through  the  open  window  into  the  little  parlor. 

There  is  a  dense  crowd  in  the  rooms ;  and  people 
loiter  about  the  outer  doors,  talking  in  low  tones. 
Everything  looks  dark,  and  fearful,  and  forbidding. 
The  crowd  seems  but  a  bank  of  gloom. 

A  little  coffin,  polished  and  smooth,  stands  upon 
the  table  in  the  middle  of  the  room.  Its  lid  is  laid 
back,  and  your  dead  child's  face  is  upturned  to 
your  own  ;  but  the  light  has  gone  out  of  the  beau- 
tiful eyes,  and  the  prattle  has  died  forever  on  the 
pale  lips. 

A  few  white  snow-drops  are  strewn  over  the 
coffin  ;  and  mothers  lift  their  blue-eyed  children  in 
their  arms,  and  let  them  look  in  silence  at  the  face 
of  the  little  corpse. 

And  parents,  who  have  been  themselves  be- 
reaved, strive  to  keep  down  the  choking  sensation 
in  their  throats,  and  turn  suddenly  away  with  their 
eyes  full  of  blinding  tears. 

They  sing  a  hymn.  Your  young  wife — now  all 
the  world  to  your  bleeding  heart — leans  heavily 


30  CAP  SHEAF. 

the  while  against  you,  and  sobs  as  if  she  would 
not  be  comforted.  You  draw  her  closer — closer  to 
you.  Oh,  how  much  more  deep  is  your  love  for 
her  now!  How  much  stronger  is  the  bond  that 
has  been  strained  with  sorrow  ! 

Back  again  from  the  silent  cemetery.  Lit- 
tle Alice  you  have  left  behind  you. 

The  house  is  deserted.  Your  wife  has  thrown 
herself  upon  the  bed,  and  buried  her  face  deeply  in 
the  pillows.  You  enter  the  little  parlor.  How 
silent !  How  sad  are  all  the  voices  of  the  summer 
morning,  as  they  reach  you  through  the  open  win- 
dows! 

You  seat  yourself  by  one  of  the  windows,  and 
pluck  leaf  after  leaf  of  the  vine  that  shelters  it. — 
How  desolate  !  How  deserted ! — Was  ever  trial 
like  this ! 

You  wonder  why  your  heart  was  schooled  so 
mysteriously  to  love,  and  then  cruelly  crushed  with 
such  a  weight  of  grief.  You  think  there  must  be 
something  wrong  in  the  ordering  of  events,  and 
your  untutored  heart  broods  over  unformed 
thoughts  of  rebellion  against  God's  goodness.  The 
agony  is  so  great,  that  you  become,  temporarily, 
its  victim. 

And  then  there  comes — slowly,  after  long 

reflection,  after  fervid  prayer, — a  recollection  of 
your  heart's  earlier  desire ;  a  remembrance  of  your 


A  SHADOW   ON  THE  ROOF.  31 

earnest  hope,  that  your  infant  might  be  the  means 
of  keeping  your  heart  full,  and  fresh,  and  free. 

A  golden  gleam  of  consolation  breaks  through  the 
clouds  that  beset  your  soul.  A  bright  ray  of  light 
comes  dancing  across  the  dark  and  troubled  waters 
of  your  heart.  You  remember  your  early  prayer, 
uttered  when  this  angel-child  first  began  to  grow 
into  the  heart  of  your  nature ;  and  you  believe 
that  the  prayer  reached  Heaven  ! 

All  through  your  lifetime  now,  little  Alice  will 
ever  be  your  CHILD.  She  will  add  nothing  to  her 
years,  in  your  memory.  Her  image,  enshrined  in 
your  heart,  will  keep  it  ever  fresh  and  young, 
through  the  silent  lapse  of  years.  And  when  you 
lie  down  to  die  yourself, — weary,  and  worn,  and 
heart-broken  with  the  world's  selfishness, — you  will 
be  consoled  beyond  all  measure,  with  the  hope  of 
regaining  your  child  again : — the  same  gentle,  pure, 
spotless  child,  that  has  been  for  years  so  mysteri- 
ously drawing  you  to  her  with  the  golden-linked 
memory  of  her  brief  existence  ! 

Maggie  lays  her  head  upon  your  shoulder, 

and  you  weep  together  for  deep  and  unutterable 

joy- 


'WOODS. 

IT  is  not  the  silence ;  nor  the  weird  and  sombre 
thoughts ;  nor  the  unbroken  circle  of  subdued 
feelings: — but  it  is  the  Presence, — the  Spirit  Pres- 
ence,— that  ever  draws  me  to  these  dim  old  Woods. 

Not  drowsy  Dryads — nor  fabulous  Fauns — nor 
Satyrs — nor  Gnomes — nor  any  of  the  thronging 
tribes  that  infest  mythology : — these  are  but  mate- 
rial creations,  whose  fantastic  freaks  can  do  no  more 
than  entangle  the  fancy  in  the  glittering  mesh  they 
fling  about  it.  They  exercise  no  spell  over  the 
heart. 

There  is  a  spirit  in  these  mysterious  Woods,  that 
seems  twin-born  of  your  own  soul.  It  plays  about 
the  gnarled  and  knotted  tree-trunks,  like  the  gos- 
samer gray  moss  that  trails  in  long  plumes  from 
their  branches.  It  dances,  like  a  thing  of  life, 
about  the  edges  of  the  emerald  leaves.  It  rides 
upon  the  bars  of  golden  sunshine,  that  break 
through  the  leafy  lattice  overhead,  and  struggles 
with  the  eyes  that  would  perseveringly  seek  to 
behold  its  form.  It  breathes  delicious  airs  upon 


WOODS.  33 

your  bared  brow, — airs  that  do  not  enervate,  but 
refresh.  It  meets  your  delighted  glance  from  the 
crystal  of  the  cloistered  pool ;  and  you  think  you 
have  caught  a  sweet  glimpse  of  Heaven. 

You  stretch  yourself  on  moss-carpets,  and  look 
into  the  sky.  There  is  but  a  hand's-breadth  there. 
Yet  it  is  all  Heaven.  It  seems  larger,  the  longer 
you  gaze  into  its  azure. 

You  wander,  in  vision,  through  the  shadowy  vistas 
that  stretch  away  so  boundlessly  before  you.  There 
is — especially  at  the  hour  of  sunset — a  feeling  in 
your  heart,  that  you  are  in  some  huge  cathedral. 
Yet  these  woods  are  grander  than  any  cathedral. 
You  think  of  tinted  windows — so  chastened  are 
the  sun's  rays,  coming  through  the  braided  branches. 
You  feed  your  heart  freely  on  ravishing  pictures  of 
Madonnas ;  with  gay  and  grand  strains  of  music, 
blended  strangely  into  seraphic  chorals,  and  inde- 
scribable symphonies.  You  catch  faintly  notes 
that  run  through  the  whole  diapason. 

1  have  built  rne  wooden  seats,  and  cushioned 

rocks  with  tufted  mosses,  at  different  points  of  the 
woods ;  and  in  one  chosen  place,  I  have  erected  a 
rude  Kiosque,  where,  at  all  times  of  the  day,  I  may 
enjoy  the  emotions  that  live  nowhere  but  in  this 
unbroken  solitude.  These  spots  are  but  so  many 
stand-points  for  me,  from  which  I  have  a  habit  of 
viewing  the  world  about  me.  And  many  a  mem- 
2* 


34  CAP  SHEAF. 

ory, — and  many  a  grief, — and  many  a  hope, — at 
each  one  of  them,  has  lived  and  died  again.  Indeed, 
these  spots  are  associated  in  my  mind  only  with 
the  nameless  feelings  that  have,  at  each,  come  regu- 
larly to  meet  me ;  just  as  the  sight  of  the  half-for- 
gotten initials  you  have  carved  upon  some  smooth 
tree-rind,  will  people  your  heart  again  with  the 
most  painful  or  pleasurable  emotions. 

Noon — high  noon !  Midsummer, — and  in  the 
heart  of  the  wood ! 

What  power  has  pen  to  seize  the  outlines 

even  of  the  ethereal  feelings,  that  distil  like  dew 
upon  the  heart  at  such  a  time?  What  life  has 
language,  when  it  would  seek  to  dress  them  in  the 
tricked  tinselry  of  words  ?  What  sympathy  has 
thought,  when  it  would  try  to  run  a  parallel  with 
their  viewless  course  ? 

I  am  at  this  hour  seated  on  a  gray  rock,  in  the 
deep  silence  of  a  little  ravine.  The  garish  sun  is 
at  the  meridian.  The  distant  hedgerows  are  pow- 
dered with  the  dust  raised  by  rattling  wains  ;  and 
laborers  trudge  languidly  along  to  dinner,  their 
vests,  like  heavy  burdens,  thrown  across  their  be- 
smirched arms.  How  refreshing  a  cup  of  cool 
water,  trickling  from  this  mossy  fountain  at  my 
feet,  would  be  to  them  at  this  moment !  Home  is 
yet  a  good  way  off;  yet  they  persevere.  Their 


WOODS.  35 

tongues  are  parched  and  swollen.  They  can  see 
the  lines  of  heat,  wavering  over  the  plain,  and 
above  the  road  before  them ;  and  it  makes  them 
feel  faint, — only  the  sight  of  them.  They  even 
think  of  "  giving  out ;"  so  oppressed  are  they. 

But  there  is  no  sun  here ;  no  dust;  no  heat. 
Sirius  rages  fiercely  without ;  but  Elysium  is  lapped 
here  within.  The  air  does  not  oppress  you;  it 
only  makes  you  drowsy.  Your  spirit  is  lulled  by 
the  silence, — a  silence  you  can  almost  feel — into 
the  sweetest  dreams.  You  fancy  you  hear  the  mu- 
sical tinkle  of  the  emerald  leaves,  as  a  wanton  gust 
rattles  them  together  like  so  many  shields.  The 
dripping  of  the  water  upon  the  dark  stones  that 
pave  the  brooklet,  sounds  like  the  melodious  chime 
of  silver  bells.  And  the  gurgling  of  the  stream  in 
its  narrow  throat  below,  fills  your  fancy  with  the 
quaintest  and  the  simplest  similitudes. 

Blotches  of  golden  sunlight  play  upon  the  long 
and  coarse  grasses  about  me,  chequering  the  place, 
and  chequering  all  my  thoughts.  I  hear  the  hoarse 
caw  of  a  crow  in  the  resounding  distance,  and  the 
cry  is  instantly  caught  up  by  the  innumerable  com- 
pany. I  look  up  at  the  sky;  but  boughs,  and 
sprays,  and  leaves,  have  screened  it  all.  I  think 
that  by  retreating  from  the  heat  of  the  sun,  I  have 
shut  out  from  my  vision  all  the  blue  Heaven  also. 
And  then  my  eye  falls  upon  the  little  gem  of  a 


36  CAP  SHEAF. 

pool  near  me, — set  so  deeply  in  its  frame-work  of 
mosses,  and  fringed  about  with  the  rare  arbuscles 
and  pale  water-flowers.  And  there  I  see  Heaven 
again.  The  blue  field  sleeps  calmly  in  the  depth 
of  the  fountain.  I  grow  suddenly  eager  to  satisfy 
myself.  In  my  fever,  I  thrust  my  hand  into  the 
water. 

—  Alas !  my  glimpse  of  Heaven  is  dashed 
into  a  thousand  fragments  I 

So  it  is — I  think — with  those  who,  in  the 

excess  of  their  selfishness,  would  make  all  enjoy- 
ment material. 

At  sunset,  nowhere  can  such  charming  visions, — 
such  endeared  associations — and  such  holy  thoughts 
be  found  as  in  the  Wood. 

On  the  hill-side,  or  on  the  mountain-heights, 
nothing  offers  itself  to  the  soul  but  grandeur.  In 
the  broad  meadows  and  champaigns,  only  soothing 
visions.  But  in  the  Woods,  refulgent  with  the 
golden  gleams  of  the  sun,  there  are  rich  and  match- 
less paintings  ;  the  framework  of  a  lifetime  of 
dreams ;  the  most  quiet  and  tender  fancies,  crossing 
and  re-crossing  each  other,  like  yonder  bars  of  yel- 
low light;  and  the  most  genial  and  placid  emo- 
tions. 

You  feel  now,  as  your  picture-filled  eyes  rove  in 
their  delightful  rounds,  that  this  is  not  the  old  earth 


WOODS.  87 

with  which  you  have  been  familiar.  You  seriously 
question  yourself,  whether  you  may  not  have  been 
mysteriously  transplanted  to  another,  and  an  ethe- 
real region.  You  think  that  the  Woods  about  the 
old  homestead  never  wore  such  a  beauty  before. 

It  is  only  because  your  own  heart  was 

never  rightly  attuned  before  to  the  enjoyment  of 
the  spiritual,  that  still  lingers  about  the  material. 
Now,  your  soul's  inner  chambers  are  opened.  The 
sunlight  turns  all  their  furniture  at  once  to  gold ! 

Seated  beneath  these  venerable  oaks,  your  eye 
swims  with  the  scenes  that  crowd  upon  it.  At  first, 
you  fancy  it  is  some  grand  panorama,  slowly  un- 
rolling itself  before  you.  Here  go  pictures  of  the 
rarest  beauty.  There  glide  and  go  by  scenes  of 
the  deepest  interest.  Here — move  visions  of  men 
and  women,  gaily  attired,  as  for  some  masquerade. 
Here  are  troops  of  Hopes,  all  moving  forward  to 
an  uniform  tread,  with  banners  of  azure  and  gold 
above  them.  And  there  are  Dreams, — you  recog- 
nize them  all  at  a  glance — bedizened  gaily  with 
rich  cloths,  and  costly  fringes;  and  flaunting  in 
the  yellow- light  the  rare  broideries  that  are  only 
theirs. 

You  carry  your  eyes  back  to  the  point  at  which 
they  started,  determined  to  go  over  with  such 
charming  illusions  again.  They  move  slowly  for- 


88  CAP  SHEAF. 

ward ;  but  they  do  not  catch  the  glimpses  of  the 
same  pictures  as  before. 

The  illusion,  however,  has  not  vanished  ;  it  has 
only  changed. 

This  time  you  see  arrowy  rivers,  shooting  their 
glistening  lengths  through  smooth-shaven  meadows, 
or  glancing  swiftly  between  vine-bedecked  hills. 
You  hear  their  roar  at  the  dark  gorges,  and  look 
up  at  the  beetling  cliffs  that  topple  over  them. 
Your  eyes  revel  among  the  walls  of  strong  old 
feudal  castles,  from  whose  turrets  and  pinnacles 
wave  long  locks  of  golden  grass.  You  try  to  think 
it  may  be  only  the  streaming  mosses  from  the  oak- 
boughs  ;  but  your  Fancy  is  on  fire,  and  you  can 
think  of  nothing  but  the  castles. 

Gay  cities  pass  before  you,  as  before  the  eyes  of 
some  swift  traveler ;  cities  upon  the  plain,  and  cities 
by  the  bounding  flood.  And  waters — glancing  and 
gleaming — are  inextricably  entangled  with  them, 
like  threads  of  silken  skeins. 

You  see  spires  and  domes  above  you,  on  every 
hand.  You  behold  long  lines  of  streets  and  avenues, 
throbbing  and  pulsating,  like  veins,  with  human 
life.  You  meet  smiling  faces,  and  catch  echoes  of 
musical  sounds.  You  hear  the  click  of  a  thousand 
hammers,  and  the  crystal  ring  of  a  thousand  anvils. 
You  never  stop,  however.  There  is  too  much  to 
be  seen,  that  you  should  not  delay. 


WOODS.  89 

You  are  in  glittering  Brussels,  where  are 

innumerable  associations  to  enchain  you.  Again — 
you  are  in  gay  Florence ;  and  the  brimming  Arno 
presents  you  with  the  clearest  transcripts  of  heaven 
in  its  pellucid  bosom.  Now  you  are  in  Venice ; 
and  the  broad  Laguna  stretches  out  before  you,  like 
a  shield  of  burnished  silver.  You  see  gondolas 
going  noiselessly  on  their  liquid  way ;  and  catch 
entrancing  strains  from  golden-stringed  guitars. 
You  see  rows  of  pearly  teeth  in  the  balconies ;  you 
are  pierced  by  bright  eyes  through  ugly  dominos  ; 
you  hear  musical  laughter  from  faces  tossed  dex- 
terously aside;  and  are  imperceptibly  bewitched 
with  the  soft  airs  that  blow  from  every  quarter  upon 
you. 

Then  come  visions  of  more  cities,  and  of  vil- 
lages, and  of  quiet  hamlets,  sleeping  in  shadowy 
glens,  or  nestling  upon  the  declivous  sides  of  lofty 
mountains.  Then — you  see  the  sun-embrowned 
peasant  men  and  women,  gathering  the  empurpled 
grapes  from  a  thousand  vineyards,  and  chatting 
gaily  in  their  homely  attire.  You  likewise  hear 
their  vineyard-songs  ;  but  they  are  not  the  saturna- 
lian  songs  of  the  train  of  Bacchus.  They  stir  your 
heart  with  the  remembrance  of  sweetest  joys. 

And  some  sudden  snapping  of  a  bough, — some 
passing  wind-gust,  that  seems  to  shake  out  showers 
of  gold  from  clustering  leaves,  breaks  off  the  thread 


40  CAP  SHEAF. 

of  this  bright  dream, — or  puft's  it  all  away,  like 
feathery  fancies,  into  the  air  above  my  head. 

But  the  dream  leaves  its  outline  behind.  Though 
the  reality  doth  not  exist  before  the  eyes,  yet  it 
hath  deeply  drawn  its  marks  upon  the  heart.  Un- 
told associations  have  suddenly  sprung  into  being, 
that  will  dance  about  these  old  boughs,  each  time 
rny  eyes  linger  among  them.  So, — they  are  not 
merely  crooked,  gnarled,  moss-spotted  outlines  to 
me.  So, — they  are  not  simply  branching  oak- 
antlers.  They  have  a  life.  They  frame  in  pictures 
of  gay  scenes,  and  support  the  work  and  activity 
of  proud  cities. 

And  my  dreams  climb  up  through  these  branches 
upon  the  golden  bars  of  sunlight,  till  they  are  all 
lost  in  the  deep  of  the  stainless  blue  beyond.  And 
my  indefinable  longings  go  out  through  them,  till 
they  soar  and  reach  the  very  heaven  they  would 
attain  at  last.  And  sweet  hopes  hang  clustered 
upon  them,  like  the  blushing  branches  of  wild 
grapes  they  yearly  bear. 

Morning — noon — and  night, — these  "Woods 

haunt  me  with  the  spirit  that  broods  in  their  aisles 
and  arches.  I  cannot  seize  it,  and  question  it  of  its 
origin  or  its  purpose.  I  only  know  its  power.  If 
I  enter  these  sombre  recesses, — it  matters  little  at 
what  time  or  season, — this  Spirit  is  sure  to  be  upon 
me.  It  silently  subdues  my  heart.  I  feel  a  finger 


WOODS.  41 

lightly  laid  upon  the  lip  of  my  thoughts,  that  they 
may  not  grow  suddenly  tumultuous  and  uncon- 
trollable. It  silences  all  my  complaints,  and 
strengthens  my  soul  with  the  repose  it  most  needs. 

For  blithe  and  ringing  woodland  melodies,  how- 
ever, no  time  surpasses  the  magical  autumn  time. 
Then  it  is,  that  the  brush  of  an  invisible  artist  has 
been  skillfully  and  mysteriously  employed.  Every 
imaginable  tint  shades  the  crowding  leaves.  All 
Gobelin  dyes  stain  the  huge  cloths  that  are  flung 
over  the  trees.  Merry  children  are  in  the  upland, 
on  their  regular  autumnal  excursion  for  nuts. 
Their  shrill  voices  ring  far  through  the  wide  soli- 
tudes. They  scream,  in  the  overflow  of  their  new 
delight.  The  air  is  bracing  and  keen;  and  no 
blood  bounds  so  swiftly  in  the  veins,  as  the  blood 
of  trooping  children.  Their  echoes  people  the  dim 
Woods  with  living  thoughts.  You  think  of  ruddy 
health — of  dancing  spirits — of  innocence  of  heart — 
of  yefr  untasted  sorrows — of  heart-life,  not  yet 
crushed  out ; — and  you  wish,  from  your  soul,  you 
were  only  a  child  again ! 

What  a  magic  in  those  merry  voices !  How 
they  break,  and  swell,  and  spread,  and  die  away 
upon  the  air, — like  concentric  circles  in  the  broken 
surface  of  a  lake !  How  contagious  are  they  to 
the  heart, — the  heart  that  is  in  health,  and  feels  the 
life  it  truly  enjoys  I 


42  CAP  SHEAF. 

And  if  fairies  and  fays  do,  in  reality,  dwell  in 
these  solitudes,  it  is  easiest  for  me  to  believe  that 
these  are  they.  They  have  their  chosen  retreats, — 
their  sacred  fountains, — their  cool  grottos, — their 
airy  arbors, — and  their  shaded  avenues.  Each  leaf- 
crested  column  has  for  them  its  charm.  Every 
vine-girt  trunk  is  encircled  likewise  with  their  love. 
They  unwittingly  make  themselves  tutelar  divini- 
ties ;  and  certainly  none  in  mythology  ever  guarded 
the  special  objects  of  their  care  with  a  more  single 
faith. 

Here,  too,  one  can  see  the  source  whence 

sprung  the  Gothic  style,  of  architecture.  The  im- 
perious and  ravaging  clan,  whose  name  has  given 
the  term  its  derivation,  were  roving  denizens  of  the 
forests.  And  their  rude  instincts — not  to  dignify 
them  with  the  title  of  tastes — have  been  built  upon, 
and  added  to,  till  the  rugged  and  enduring  Gothic 
structure  has  come  to  associate  itself  with  all  that 
is  massive  and  imposing. 

You  sit  on  this  rude  seat,  and  delight  your  eyes 
with  carrying  out  the  comparison  your  mind  has 
thus  suggested. 

About  you  are  standing  the  solid  and  enduring 
columns.  Here  are  the  shafts, — firm,  upright,  and 
immovable.  You  behold  here  the  solemn  aisles, 
and  the  sombre  arches.  Here  is  entablature ;  and 
cornice ;  and  molding ;  and  frieze.  Here,  among 


WOODS.  43 

the  boughs,  are  those  bewildering  traceries,  that 
branch  out  from  the  mullions  into  arches,  and 
curves,  and  mystic  lines,  which  the  eye  can  scarcely 
follow  for  their  entangling  intricacy.  Here  are 
stretching  fretted  vaults,  and  groined  ceilings, 
through  which  you  catch  sight  of  the  deep<blue  of 
Heaven. 

And  as  your  delighted  vision  drops  gradually  to 
the  earth,  and  loses  itself  in  the  mazy  background 
of  the  mystic  picture,  you  feel  yourself  irresistibly 
borne  through  long-drawn  aisles,  whose  leafy  ceil- 
ings chasten  the  light  to  a  tone  that  is  truly  reli- 
gious. You  catch  a  view  of  flaming  altars ;  and 
you  fancy  that  burning  censers  swing  silently  to 
and  fro  above  your  head.  You  see  no  priests,  who 
offer  to  shrive  your  soul  of  its  earthly  impurities, 
or  order  you  to  do  meaningless  penance;  but  there 
is  still  that  Spirit-presence  here, — more  powerful, 
more  winning,  than  all  priests. 

The  intense  tranquillity  in  which  my  existence  is 
lapped  here,  excites  emotions,  and  shadows  of  emo- 
tions,— so  airy,  so  entangled,  so  involute,  and  so 
unreal  when  compared  with  any  thing  earthly, — 
that  language  is  not  able  to  seize  and  embody  them, 
while  they  tremble  upon  the  vibrating  chords  of  the 
soul. 

The  freshly-stirred  air,  redolent  of  hillocks 

of  new-mown  hay,  blows  aside  a  pendulous  bough, 


CAP  SHEAF. 


and  two  white  head-stones  glimmer  through  the 
parted  foliage. 

The  early  called !     They  died  before  they 


knew  sin ! 

And  my  heart  hovers  about  that  sacred  corner 
of  the  Wood.  And  I  think  that  these  twin  snow- 
white  slabs,  are  but  emblems  of  the  stainless  purity 
of  the  beings  whose  lives  they  commemorate. 

And  I  feel  that  it  would  be  well,  if  we  could  all 
die  young ;  before  the  ermine  was  stained  and  be- 
draggled in  the  dust  of  life's  thoroughfare. 

I  instinctively  feel  that  all  this  acquaintance  with 
the  world, — which  men  wisely,  as  they  think,  call 
experience, — is  but  little  to  be  coveted.  For  the 
crystal  clearness  becomes,  in  time,  bedimmed. 
Thick  world-breaths  and  noisome  vapors  will  foul 
the  mirror.  And  the  delicate  flowers  that  begin  to 
bloom  in  the  heart-soil,  are  ruthlessly  trampled 
upon,  as  if  they  were  but  worthless  weeds. 

My  heart  sickens,  at  thinking  of  the  jostling,  and 
crowding,  and  scrambling.  My  ambition  deadens, 
at  beholding  the  intrigue,  the  secret  machinery,  the 
dishonesty,  and  the  dishonor,  that  seize  upon  every- 
thing, and  call  it  their  own.  My  feelings  revolt,  at 
thought  of  a  rivalry  with  deceit,  and  hypocrisy, 
and  heartlessness,  and  debasing  envy.  I  count  all 
things  as  nothing  worth,  when  they  are  to  be 
reached  through  such  rough  trials  and  perplexities. 


WOODS.  45 

And  then,  when  disgust  has  utterly  killed  out 
desire,  the  heart  reposes  calmly  on  the  knowledge 
of  its  own  strength,  and  a  sweet  peace  broods 
about  it  that  charms  all  the  existence.  Then  I 
feel  that  innocence,  and  purity,  and  a  living  faith, 
are  worth  all  the  rest  together.  Then  I  know  what 
a  vast  wealth  the  soul  has  of  its  own.  And  I  feel 
that  these  dead  innocents — dead  only  to  earthly 
misery — are  rich,  vastly  rich,  when  compared  with 
any  of  those  who  have  hoarded  and  rolled  up  for  a 
long  life-time. 

But  the  little  white  head-stones  in  the  green- 
wood !  How  strangely  they  stir  my  feelings  all 
the  time ! 

I  remember  they  told  me  that  the  two  children 
buried  there,  were  suddenly  stricken ;  and  that 
they  were  obliged  to  remove  them  at  once  into 
the  Wood. 

Yes;  but  little  thought  they  at  the  time, 

that  this  was  the  fittest  place  for  such.  Mayhap, 
they  did  not  pause  to  think,  how  the  choral  an- 
thems from  feathered  songsters  would,  through  the 
long  and  dreamy  days,  and  far  into  the  still  sum- 
mer nights,  roll  and  tremble  unceasingly  over  their 
graves. 

They  forgot  how  sweetly  the  soft  winds  would 
sweep  over  these  mounds ;  and  draw  through  the 
long  grasses  like  melancholy  music  upon  reeds. 


46  CAP  SHEAF. 

They  thought  not  that  ministering  angels  could 
come  here  undisturbed  ;  nor  knew  of  the  holy  hush 
that  would  ever  brood  about  this  spot,  and  make 
it  sacred  in  the  heart  of  him  who  should  linger 
here. 

A  grave  in  a  greenwood ! 

I  would  have  mine  there.  No  clatter  of  the 
world's  loud  mechanism ;  no  dust  raised  by  tramp- 
ing feet;  no  sharp  echoes  from  angered  voices. 
Only  calmness — only  green  leaves — only  chastened 
light — only  subdued  emotions  and  influences. 

What  place  more  fitting  for  a  grave?  Where 
could  an  overwearied  frame  slumber  so  sweetly? 
Where  would  the  dreamless  rest  be  so  continually 
unbroken  ? 

And  the  head-stone  would  always  be  so 

snowy,  among  the  deep  green  leaves ! 

And  the  waving  of  the  funereal  mosses  from 

overhead,  would  ever  be  so  stately  and  mournful ! 

And  the  sweeping  of  the  winds  through 

the  long  branches,  would  ever  so  sadden  the  air 
with  the  dirge-like  music  of  their  strains ! 

And  the  sleep  would  be  so  deep, — so  calm, 

— so  unbroken,  through  all  the  golden  cycles  of  a 
limitless  Eternity  I 


BUBBLES. 

I  HAD  thrown  myself  into  my  arm-chair  one 
day, — it  was  in  the  latter  part  of  a  long  and 
tedious  winter, — and  was  gradually  losing  myself 
in  the  sweet  and  smooth  flow  of  feelings,  that 
always  sets  about  me  here. 

The  wintry  winds  had  brawled  themselves  hoarse 
over  the  fields  of  snow  in  the  distance,  and  were 
wheeling  and  charging  in  thick  squadrons  down 
the  wooded  road,  to  attack  the  first  chance  traveler. 
I  could  hear  them  piping  shrilly  at  the  crannies,  and 
their  whistling  voices  had,  I  confess,  a  secret  charm 
for  me.  I  knew  they  could  not  reach  me  with  their 
frost-biting  breath ;  and  I  unconsciously  drew  a  bit 
nearer  the  fire,  and  wrapped  myself  more  closely 
in  the  feeling  of  comfort  I  had  drawn  about  me. 

It  was  mid-afternoon  ;  and  the  pale  and  lifeless 
sun  threw  itself  across  my  floor  more  like  a  verita- 
ble shadow,  than  the  cheerful  sun  it  should  have 
been. 

I  tried  to  lose  myself  entirely — to  sleep;  but 
that  was  impossible.  My  thoughts  would  not 


48  CAP  SHEAF. 

wholly  sleep.  Y«et  they  were,  for  all  that,  disposed 
to  drowse. 

Everything  I  had  ever  heard  or  read,  seemed 
crowding  in  my  memory.  Chance  sayings,  from 
the  lips  of  friends  long  dead;  and  quaint  lines 
from  quaintest  authors.  Old  books  sifted  out  their 
piquancies  into  my  lap,  that  I  should  pick  them  up 
and  examine  them  over  again.  My  mind  was,  for 
the  time,  a  crowded  and  illy-arranged  museum. 
Every  thing  was  huddled  together  with  every  thing 
else ;  yet  not  so  confusedly  as  that  I  could  not  lay 
my  hand — so  to  say — on  any  thing  I  wanted. 

By  some  now  unknown  association,  the  line  of 
Banquo,  in  his  questioning  of  Macbeth  respecting 
the  appearance  of  the  three  witches,  came  to  me ; 
and  I  know  not  if  I  repeated  it  to  myself  aloud, 
in  the  state  of  reverie  into  which  I  was  falling : 

"  The  Earth  has  bubbles  as  the  Water  hath." 

At  all  events,  the  line  kept  running  and  spinning 
round  in  my  brain,  I  all  the  while  trying  to  draw 
out  its  secret  meaning.  And  in  time  my  thoughts 
began  to  weave  themselves  into  a  web,  somewhat 
after  this  wise : 

Bubbles! — yes,  and  a  plenty  of  them,  tool 

The  baby  blows  them  from  the  bowl  of  a  clay 
pipe,  distending  his  little  cheeks  to  their  utmost, 


BUBBLES.  49 

and  staring  at  the  many  tints  that  float  over  their 
surfaces,  with  a  delight  that  is  almost  uncon- 
trollable. 

The  youth  blows  them,  when  he  looks  out  from 
one  of  the  windows  of  his  beautiful  air-castle ;  and 
his  eye  swims  with  the  pleasant  prospect  he  sees 
through  the  golden  mists  that  curtain  his  vision. 

The  man  of  maturer  years  blows  them  ;  but  they 
are  not  always  so  gaily  painted  as  those  he  inflated 
years  ago.  The  colors  have  faded.  They  seem 
soiled.  They  are,  in  truth,  wanting.  Yet  the 
bubbles  are  no  less  bubbles,  although  they  look 
vapory  and  dull. 

And  so,  I  thought,  we  all  keep  blowing 

bubbles, — from  early  babyhood,  till  we  lean  upon 
the  stafi0.  It  is  only  when  the  silvery  snows  of  old 
age  lie  thick  upon  the  temples,  and  the  clear  eye 
has  lost  its  crystal,  that  we  cease  from  the  occu- 
pation. 

Early  in  life,  we  call  it  a  pastime;  when  we 
grow  older,  we  make  it  a  business.  While  we  are 
children,  we  send  up  the  fragile  creations  into  the 
air,  and  laugh  and  clap  our  hands  to  see  the  winds 
play  with  them  as  with  liquid  footballs  'r  and  when 
at  last  their  thousand  slender  threads  snap  in  sun- 
der, and  only  a  glistening  water-drop  falls  to  the 
earth,  our  faces  momentarily  forget  their  smiles,  and 
straightway — we  go  to  blowing  more ! 

3 


50  CAP  SHEAF. 

We  get  farther  along  in  years.  We  a^  sanguine, 
even  to  feverishness.  We  hope  for  every  thing 
which  our  minds  conceive.  We  know  of  no  such 
word  as  impossibility.  Our  blood  is  hot ;  it  flies 
swiftly  along  our  veins ;  and  we  know  not  how  to 
brook  restraint.  Life  is  all  pleasure ;  or  rather,  a 
concentric  series  of  pleasures, — the  outer  circles 
quite  as  thickly  crowded  with  happiness  as  those 
nearer  the  centre.  We  snatch  quick  glances  at  the 
future ;  and  we  see  the  years  going  round  and 
round  in  these  charmed  circles,  till  the  brain  grows 
giddy.  And  then  we  give  ourselves  up  to  nothing 
but  this  single  object  and  purpose. 

We  grow  out  of  mere  boyhood, — that  uncertain 
age  of  conflicts  between  pride  and  reason, — that 
time  wherein  we  experience  more  mortifications 
than  during  all  the  rest  of  our  lives  together, — and 
we  feel  the  first  flush  of  manhood  on  our  brow. 
The  limbs  are  lithe,  and  graceful,  and  strong.  The 
senses  take  a  secret  pleasure  in  the  simple  conscious- 
ness of  an  existence.  The  eye  is  quick,  and  clear, 
and  far-sighted.  The  ear  catches  the  slightest 
sounds.  A  sense  of  strength,  and  so  of  confidence, 
settles  steadily  down  over  the  whole  being.  There 
are  no  feats — whether  physical  or  intellectual — for 
which  we  do  not  feel  abundant  capacity. 

And  the  hopes,  too,  are  so  vaulting;  and  the 
ambition  is  so  exalted ;  and  the  heart  is  so  strong ! 


BUBBLES.  51 

Oh !  how  much  it  would  take  of  trial,  to  crush  the 
strength  out  of  the  young  heart  now  ! 

You  are  looking  with  an  eye  full  of  hope- 
ful expression,  out  upon  the  wide  highways  of  life. 
Crowded  as  they  are,  you  have  no  fear  of  there 
being  no  room  for  you.  You  are  so  full  of  self- 
reliance, — to  give  it  a  no  harsher  name, — that  you 
even  presume  to  think  the  world  is  in  want  of  your 
services ;  that  it  can  ill  do  without  you. 

Immature  fellow !  you  might  die,  and  a 

thousand  more  of  equal  promise  and  hope  might 
die  with  you, — and  yet  your  loss  would  never  be 
known.  There  would  be  no  such  general  sorrow 
as  you  reckon  upon.  Enough,  and  more,  would  be 
left,  to  accomplish  all  you  had  in  your  heart  re- 
solved for  yourself. 

You  think,  as  you  pass  on,  that  you  will  need 
the  sympathy  of  another,  from  which,  as  from  a 
never-failing  fountain,  to  feed  your  own.  You 
sometimes  even  now  have  moments  of  weariness 
and  exhaustion,  though  they  are  as  fleecy  clouds  in 
the  breeze ;  yet  they  only  suggest  to  you  fears  of 
weariness  and  exhaustion  in  the  battle  of  the  on- 
coming years,  and  you  resolve  not  to  be  taken 
unawares. 

At  first,  this  is  but  a  thought  of  expediency,  or 
of  something  that  looks  as  much  to  safety  as  to  any 
thing  else.  Then  it  slowly  and  gradually  takes 


52  CAP  SHEAF. 

form.  Then  it  thrusts  its  bursting  grain  above  the 
heart-soil,  and  makes  itself  felt  as  an  existence, — as 
a  living  reality.  Then  it  germinates  rapidly ;  draw- 
ing strongly  on  the  life  for  sustenance,  and  sucking 
up  almost  all  the  invigorating  juices  from  the 
heart. 

You  are  thrown  off  your  balance  by  the  most 
trivial  causes;  nay,  by  no  causes  at  all.  Your 
nerves  grow  sadly  out  of  tune.  Your  weak  head 
swims  on  the  slightest  pretexts.  Your  heart  feels 
never  so  lonely, — never  so  sadly  in  want  of  another's 
answering  sympathies. 

You  have  brothers?  No — no.  Sisters?  Ah, 
but  even  that  will  not  do.  Something  nearer  even 
than  brother,  or  sister,  is  what  your  heart-hunger 
craves  now. 

And  all  this  time,  silly  fellow!  your  eyes  are 
tightly  shut  and  blindfolded.  You  see  nothing. 
You  are  willing  thus  to  grope  in  the  dark.  Yet  if 
you  would  but  exercise  a  little  of  the  sober  sense 
you  have  laid  by,  as  of  no  use,  in  what  a  straight- 
forward way  would  you  go  at  your  hidden  purpose ! 

The  sight  of  a  pale  ribbon,  flirting  in  the  wind, 
throws  you  in  a  panic.  A  smile  from  rich  red  lips 
fairly  makes  you  go  mad.  The  glance  of  a  twink- 
ling dark  eye  quite  intoxicates  you.  How  the  hot 
blood  rushes  to  your  eyes, — and  as  quickly  flies 
back  again ! 


BUBBLES.  53 

If  you  could  but  hear  the  music  of  her 


voice ! 

Ah,  well, — and  that  happy  time  soon  comes 
along.  You  have  waited  patiently  and  persistently. 
You  have  struggled  valiantly  with  your  bashful- 
ness,  until  you  are  at  last  the  victor.  You  speak 
to  her  whose  image  has  so  long  been  haunting  you. 
She  replies.  Her  voice  is  like  the  blended  tones 
of  a  lute. 

Was  there  ever  such  delicious  joy ! 

Again, — you  feel  the  slight  weight  of  her  hand 
upon  your  arm.  Yet  you  can  hardly  feel  it,  either. 
You  wish  she  was  heavier.  You  wish  she  was 
more  of  a  burden  on  your  arm. 

The  lace-frills  on  either  side  of  her  face  are  snow- 
white  ;  but  not  so  white  as  her  face  itself.  Nothing 
could  be  whiter  than  that.  You  look  at  her,  and 
wonder  while"  you  fear. 

"  Lean  more  on  me  for  support,"  you  say. 

She  throws  a  grateful  glance  up  at  you ;  but  says 
nothing.  Yet  you  read,  as  plainly  as  if  you  had 
heard  it,  syllable  by  syllable, — 

"  Thank  you ;  I  lean  on  you  now  all  I  can." 

But  how  like  a  feather !  How  fragile !  She 
leans  on  you  with  all  her  weight  ?  Then  she  is 
scarce  heavier  than  a  shadow ! 

You  try  to  speak  cheering  words.     You  tell  her 


54  OAF  SHEAF. 

what  an  effect  balmy  airs  have  on  your  senses,  and 
fry  to  make  her  confess  that  she  is  refreshed  her- 
self. The  red  rose  that  thrusts  its  head  over  the 
garden  wall,  you  pluck  for  her,  heedless  of  thorns 
and  pain.  You  offer  it  to  her.  She  lays  it  gently 
against  her  lips. 

Alas !  how  fearful  the  contrast  with  that 

blanched  face  !  For  the  moment,  yours  is  as  white 
as  her  own ! 

You  speak  of  flowers;  but  your  lip  quivers. 
You  know  that  the  flower  upon  your  arm  is  too 
white  for  a  rose ;  too  pale  by  far  for  a  lily ;  too  fragile 
for  an  earth-flower :  and  you  cannot  keep  it  out  of 
your  mind,  that  she  is  to  bloom  in  another  soil. 

Oh  God  !  how  the  rushing  thoughts  come  ! 

All  your  ambition — that  powerful  magnet  that  drew 
you  down  to  the  earth — has  lost  its  efficacy  now  ! 
The  strong  cords  of  your  other  earthly  interests 
are  suddenly  snapped  like  threads.  You  could 
burn  your  books,  and  feel  no  regret, — if  by  that 
means  these  cruel  fears  would  not  clutch  at  your 
heart  with  their  skinny  fingers.  You  would  freely 
give  up  your  whole  life-time, — day  by  day,  and  year 
by  year, — if  by  such  devotion  you  could  crush  the 
life  out  of  these  shapeless  spectres. 

And  then  comes  a  long  day ;  a  dark  day  ; 

a  dismal  day.     No  other  such  day  was  ever  set 


BUBBLES.  55 

down  in  the  calendar.  The  sun  is  clear, — but  you 
do  not  see  it  shine.  You  are  all  in  the  darkness. 
The  sweet  south-winds  blow  upon  your  temples, 
and  drift  to  your  nostrils  the  aromas  they  have 
rifled  from  beds  of  flowers. 

If  she  could  but  feel  this  fragrance  in  her 

nostrils ! 

You  see  many  faces,  and  many  strange  ones. 
There  are  wild-briers  running  over  the  turf  all 
around  you,  as  you  walk  on  ;  but  no  roses  here ; 
nothing  but  thorns. 

Your  eye  is  glassy ;  and  it  runs  round  uncon- 
sciously over  the  faces  that  are  turned  upon  your 
own.  Your  muscles  are  so  rigid,  you  think  your 
face  is  all  of  marble. 

There  is  a  throng  on  your  every  hand ;  circles  of 
young  girls,  but  not  a  smile  on  the  face  of  one. 
Their  eyes  are  cast  solemnly  down,  and  you  fancy 
their  pale  lips  quiver.  You  look  closer ;  and  your 
own  lips  shake  and  tremble,  in  spite  of  you. 

The  dull  tramp  of  feet  is  over.  There  is  no 
sound  —  not  a  single  voice.  The  silence  is  un- 
broken. It  hangs  over  you — over  those  about  you 
— over  the  whole  dense  throng,  like  a  dark  and 
heavy  pall.  You  would  put  out  your  hand  and 
raise  it  from  before  your  eyes.  You  feel  that  the 
air  is  smothered ;  and  you  would  fain  speak  aloud, 


56  CAP  SHEAF. 

to  satisfy  yourself  that  you  still  retain  the  power 
of  speech. 

How  heavy !  How  oppressive !  How  ap- 
palling ! 

By-and-by, — a  low,  faint,  scarce  audible  sound 
rises  near  you ;  yet  it  seems  as  if  it  must  be  a  great 
way  off.  Now  louder — now  higher — now  nearer 
still  to  you. 

It  is  the  slow  Dirge  for  the  Dead ! 

How  your  flesh  creeps,  as  the  sad,  wailing 

tones  reach  your  ears !  How  icy  cold  is  the  blood 
in  your  veins, — and  yet  the  beaded  drops  of  per- 
spiration stand  upon  your  temples  and  in  your 
palms !  How  you  try  to  convince  yourself  that 
you  still  possess  your  senses, — and  yet,  in  your 
deep  agony,  fiercely  bite  your  lip  almost  through. 

Alas, — what  wo, — what  untold  wo !  No  heart 
now  for  your  heart  to  beat  against.  No  ear  into 
which  to  pour  the  torrent  of  your  grief.  You  can- 
not move  from  your  tracks.  You  would  not  move, 
if  you  could.  You  would  not  speak  ;  nor-utter  a 
cry.  You  would  forever  stand  there,  like  a  lifeless 
stock  of  marble. 

You  wonder  if  all  the  others  feel  as  you  do ;  and 
.you  try  to  lift  your  eyes  to  meet  the  gaze  which 
you  know  is  upon  you.  But  just  then  comes 
another  wail  of  music,  and  your  eyes  drop  to  the 


BUBBLES.  57 

ground.  They  behold  what  till  now  has  been 
spared  you. 

They  fall  into  a  gaping  grave. 

And  then  comes  blindness  again, — and  a 

swift  swimming  of  the  brain, — and  a  sickening  of 
all  the  senses ;  and  you  fear  lest  you  may  yourself 
reel  and  pitch  into  the  newly-dug  grave. 

Oh  God! — if  only  this  cup  could  have 

passed  from  your  lips  untasted  ! 

Four  men  stand  at  the  mouth  of  the  dread 
cavity.  Their  feet  loosen  the  gravel  that  has  bee  a 
thrown  out,  and  it  rattles  back  again  with  a  dull 
and  deadened  sound. 

They  each  hold  on  tightly  by  a  strap.  It  slips — 
you  can  distinctly  hear  it — through  their  hands. 
Do  wn — down — down. 

The  slim  coffin  has  disappeared  below  the  edge 
of  the  grave.  It  grates  and  rumbles  against  the 
rough  sides  of  its  cell,  and  sinks  down  into  the 
dead  silence  and  darkness. 

You  hear  sobs, — quick,  convulsive,  heart-rend- 
ing sobs.  They  are  full  of  distress.  They  come 
from  a  mother, — a  sister, — a  friend. 

You  cannot  bear  it  yourself.  Oh,  for  a  single 
tear  !  Oh,  for  a  single  heaving  of  the  breast  I 

But  no — but  no.  No  one  to  whom  to  con- 
fide your  griefs  now;  and  they  must  fall  back 
crushingly  upon  your  heart.  They  seem  to  scorch 


58  CAP  SHEAF. 

it  with  their  lava.  They  press  so  hard  upon  you, 
that  you  feel  fearfully  self-possessed.  It  is  dreadful. 

The  young  girls  step  timidly  up  to  the  edge  of 
the  dark  grave, — snatch  a  look  at  the  motionless 
coffin  that  now  holds  all  your  heart, — and  silently 
drop  roses  down  upon  it. 

The  sight  touches  you  deeply ;  but  no  tears  yet. 
What  a  blessed  relief  would  they  be ! 

And  then  you  clench  your  hands  tightly  together, 
and  bite  your  lip  in  fiercer  agony.  You  spit  blood 
profusely  from  your  mouth. 

Only  a  prayer, — a  slow,  solemn  prayer  from  the 
reverend  man  of  God, — and  all  is  over.  The  dark 
throng  begin  to  turn  slowly  away. 

They  are  nearly  all  gone.  They  wait  for  you 
only. 

Some  one  gently  touches  your  arm ;  but  you  are 
as  senseless  as  stone.  Your  eyes  are  fixed  upon  that 
dismal  grave ;  the  greedy  grave  that  has  swallowed 
up  all  your  hopes  of  earthly  happiness. 

You  only  wish  you  could  lie  down  and  be 

buried  forever  there,  too ! 

Then  you  think  of  her  again,  as  she  looked  to 
you  when  she  was  in  the  flush  of  her  youthful 
beauty.  You  remember  well  the  very  first  glance 
she  gave  you.  It  will  never,  you  think,  pass  out 
of  memory.  You  call  up  all  her  tender  expres- 
sions,— her  genial  thoughts, — and  her  arch  and 


BUBBLES.  59 

graceful  sayings.  You  remember  how  charming 
she  looked  to  you,  on  a  certain  summer  morning, 
when  you  were  riding  together  along  a  road  lined 
with  ruddy  apple-blossoms,  and  alive  with  the 
gushing  melody  of  birds.  You  think,  too,  of  the 
time  when  she  gently  laid  her  head  against  your 
manly  shoulder,  and  your  heart  leaped,  to  know 
she  loved  none  so  truly  as  you. 

And  then  to  have  the  crushing  thought  fall  like 
a  great  weight  upon  you,  that  this  is  all  that  is  left 
to  you  of  what  your  heart  had  so  loved ;  and  that 
even  this  is  thus  cast  out  of  your  sight,  to  be  preyed 
upon  by  the  worms ! 

Oh,  for  but  a  hot  tear !  How  do  you  pray 

that  this  mighty  grief  will  break  its  bounds,  and 
overflow !  • 

This  time,  they  pull  harder  at  your  arm,  and 
call  you  by  name.  You  look  up  ;  but  comprehend 
nothing.  You  hear  your  name  spoken  ;  but  know 
not  by  whom. 

They  warn  you,  in  affectionate  words,  to  come 
away.  You  move  on  after  them  ;  but  your  last 
look  is  towards  that  greedy  grave. 

And  you  think  you  will  come  back  there  again 
when  night  steals  over  the  place,  and  watch 
patiently  by  the  side  of  it  till  she  comes  and  sits 
down  by  you,  when  you  will  again  weave  fresh 
roses  into  garlands  together. 


60  CAP  SHEAF. 

You  are   back  in  your  snug  room  once 

more.  You  open  a  book — a  huge  book — and  lay 
it  upon  the  little,  table  before  you.  The  events  of 
the  day  you  desire  to  make  more  real ;  and  you 
bring  them  into  close  proximity  with  your  daily 
duties, — with  your  very  books, — with  the  large, 
clear  type  on  the  page. 

Alas, — in  only  a  brief  moment  they  become  too 
real  for  you !  They  roll  rapidly  and  surgingly  over 
your  brain,  like  yeasty  waves  over  a  drowning 
man! 

No  ambition  now :  no  more  hope :  no  high 
thoughts  for  the  future.  You  care  nothing  for  the 
applauding  voices  of  the  world.  They  sound  like 
faint  whispers,  by  the  side  of  your  roaring  and 
deafening  troubles. 

You  pace  from  room  to  room ;  but  still  no  conso- 
lation. All  your  castles,  that  you  had  builded 
with  such  nice  care,  have  crumbled  to  the  ground. 
All  the  domestic  happiness  you  had  thought  at 
some  future  day  to  enter  upon,  has  suddenly  van- 
ished from  your  vision.  The  home-fires  you  had 
thought  to  kindle  so  brightly  on  your  hearth,  are 
smothered  and  smouldering.  Only  dry  ashes  are 
before  you  ; — no  blaze ; — no  warmth.  There  is  a 
vacant  chair  beside  your  own ;  but  your  eyes  swim 
with  tears,  and  you  can  see  no  further.  You  seize 
your  hat  and  hasten  away  again  to  breathe  out  your 


BUBBLES.  61 

griefs  upon  the  winds,  hoping  they  may,  perchance, 
waft  them  to  her  ears. 

—  And  this  is  your  first  disappointment ;  your 
first  big  trouble.  Would  to  God — you  say — it  may 
be  your  last ! 

Bubbles !  all  bubbles  ! — thought  I,  as  the 

wind  shrieked  mercilessly  in  the  crevices  of  the 
old  garret  again.  When  do  we  stop  blowing  them? 
— and  when  do  they  stop  bursting  ? 

Now  I  thought  I  knew  what  Banquo  meant, 
when  he  said  that  the  Earth,  like  Water,  had 
bubbles : 

"And  this  is  of  them." 

I  piled  fresh  wood  upon  my  fire.  I  felt 

chilled,  as  with  the  cold. 

My  eyes  wandered  out  at  the  window.  The  sun 
no  longer  lay  upon  the  carpet.  It  had  gone  down 
behind  the  distant  hills.  The  swart  shadows  were 
at  the  casement,  glimmering  across  the  field  of 
snow,  and  were  even  now  creeping  in. 

They  had  come,  I  fancied,  to  fling  the 

drapery  of  their  sombre  shroud  about  the  thoughts 
that  brooded  here.  And  I  gladly  welcomed  them 
too. 

I  buried  my  face  in  my  hands,  and  felt  a  secret 
joy  that  the  Night  had  finally  come. 


SUMMER   RAIN. 

TO  some,  a  rainy  day  in  summer  is  a  bank  of 
gloom,  with  not  the  edge  of  a  bright  vision 
thrusting  itself  through.  It  is  so,  either  from  the 
peculiarity  of  their  organizations,  or  the  doubled 
tediousness  of  their  ordinary  ennui.  Sunshine  has 
more  to  do  with  the  happiness  of  such  people  than 
they  would  be  willing  to  allow. 

To  others,  and  to  myself — provided  it  is  nowise 
related  to  an  Equinoctial  storm — a  rainy  day  in 
Summer  has  a  pleasure  all  its  own.  I  would  de- 
scribe, if  I  could,  the  feeling  of  homeness  that 
broods  upon  my  heart,  as  J  hear  the  rain  driving 
against  the  window-panes,  or  rattling  upon  the  dry- 
shingles  that  roof  the  old  garret  in.  It  fills  me 
with  a  secret  joy,  to  hear  it  dripping — dripping — 
dripping  from  the  eaves;  or  gurgling,  and  foaming, 
and  roaring  in  the  throats  of  the  gutters.  On  the 
roof,  it  sounds  like  the  clatter  of  ten  thousand  steeds 
of  Nereus,  and  runs  riot  in  ten  thousand  fancies 
through  the  brain. 

I  sit  in  my  arm-chair,  and  watch  them  as  they 


SUMMER  RAIN.  63 

pour  through, — I  mean  the  fancies.  And  strangely 
mixed  with  them  are  the  pictures  I  behold  on  all 
sides.  Out  at  the  window,  the  distant  fields  show 
themselves,  wet,  soaking,  bedraggled.  A  momen- 
tary desolation  seems  to  have  settled  down  upon 
them ;  yet  to  the  heart  that  glows  with  faith,  and 
with  fancies,  that  are  often  next  of  kin, — it  is  no 
desolation  at  all. 

Brooks,  that  had  gone  back  to  hide  in  their 
fountains,  now  are  twisting  and  braiding  themselves 
together  all  over  the  meadows.  Little  pools  stretch 
across  boggy  and  shallow  places,  and  their  surface 
breaks  continually  with  the  tinkle  and  patter  of  the 
'falling  rain.  The  grass,  that  had  grown  parched,  and 
dried,  and  tawny  in  the  biting  heat,  drinks  in  the 
rain  at  every  pore,  and  looks  refreshed  and  grate- 
ful. Oxen  and  cows  stand  patiently  waiting  in  the 
barn-yards,  their  sides  smoking  as  with  heat.  The 
freshly-opened  furrows  take  deeper  shades.  The 
clover-buds  exhale  new  fragrance  on  the  air,  reach- 
ing the  nostrils.  Leaves  shiver  with  each  breath 
of  the  changeful  wind,  or  with  the  increased  tor- 
rents of  the  rain. 

Boys  trudge  homeward,  wading  with  their  bared 
legs  in  the  roaring  gutters ;  and  they  launch  their 
mimic  boats  upon  the  treacherous  tide,  and  shout 
lustily  to  each  other  as  they  see  them  swamped  in 
the  waters  beyond  their  Teach.  Old  women, — 


64  CAP   SHEAF. 

housewives  and  simple-mannered  maidens, — labor 
at  the  spinning-wheel,  until  its  drowsy  and  monot- 
onous buzz  quite  drowns  the  noise  of  the  rain,  and 
haunts  the  house  with  its  recurring  roll.  And 
steadily  beats  the  rain  upon  windows  ;  and  steadily 
it  tinkles  upon  the  crisp  shingles ;  and  steadily  its 
moisture  drives  its  grateful  freshness  into  my  heart. 

Comfort,  at  such  a  time  as  this,  is  linked  with  a 
roof.  It  would  be  no  comfort  now,  without  shelter. 
In  the  old  farm-houses,  men  collect  in  knots  about 
the  kitchens;  or  congregate  in  the  corn-cribs,  to 
talk  over  the  prospects  of  the  year;  or  ramble 
dreamily  over  the  huge  barns,  as  if  their  empty 
spaces  were  full  of  food  for  their  own  thoughts.'" 
Few,  like  myself,  settle  themselves  cozily  in  the 
depths  of  their  great  chairs,  and  watch  the  sluggish 
passage  of  the  hours  with  patience  and  hope. 

And  here,  in  this  old  chair,  there  is  no  better 
solace  than  a  few  well-thumbed  and  rare  books. 
They  are  trustier  than  living  companions  to  you. 
They  meet  the  exact  wants  of  the  heart  at  this 
sombre  time.  Their  very  silence  draws  you  to 
them  like  a  magnet. 

The  man  of  taste  sits  down  to  his  table,  and 
selects  them  as  the  bon  vivant  makes  choice  of  his 
wines.  If  you  are  full  of  mental  humors,  old  Bur- 
ton will  cheer  you  to  your  heart's  desire.  He  will 
take  your  ugly  blue-devils,  one  by  one,  and  dissect 


SUMMER  RAIN.  65 

them  for  you  before  your  very  eyes.  If  your  mind 
is  on  the  distant  rifts  and  runnels,  and  you  wish,  as 
the  school-boy  happily  expressed  it,  that  it  rained 
"too  hard  to  go  to  school,  but  just  about  hard 
enough  to  go  a  fishing," — then  take  up  gentle  Izaak 
Walton,  and  let  your  eyes  slip  slowly  over  his 
pleasant  pages,  till  you  fancy  you  are  already  in 
the  fields  where  you  wished  to  be, — strolling  down 
beside  the  meadow-brooks, — watching  the  dancing 
wavelets, — growing  drowsy  with  the  whirr  of  the 
frogs, — and  again  become  excited  with  the  leap  of 
a  lively  troutlet. 

Or,  if  gentle  and  tender  heart-histories  please 
you  better,  and  the  surging  of  the  rain  against  the 
windows  makes  you  hug  the  arm-chair  still  closer, — 
read  Ik  Marvel ;  whose  volatile  pen  has  so  livingly 
pictured  heart-life  on  his  pages,  that  you  think  you 
can  almost  behold  the  throbbings  of  the  heart  itself 
between  the  lines.  Or,  if  romance  is  your  choice, 
there  are  masters  enough,  and  Scott,  Dickens,  and 
Cooper  are  among  them.  Or  again,  if  your  soul  is 
satisfied  with  quiet  and  thoughtful  reverie,  and 
finds  that  sufficient  to  drive  off  leaden  hypochon- 
dria from  your  thoughts,  then  betake  yourself 
within  yourself.  You  could  hardly  select  a  more 
congenial  day  for  your  purpose,  though  you  went 
notching  through  the  whole  length  of  the  calendar. 

The  noise  of  the  rain  is  food  for  your  fancies.   A 


66  CAP  SHEAF. 

delicious  repose,  more  than  half  languor,  broods  in 
the  silence  in  which  your  senses  are  lapped ;  and  it 
grows  still  more  delicious  with  this  sound  of  the 
falling,  dripping,  pouring,  gushing  rain.  The  heart 
turns  to  itself  instinctively ;  and  the  wealth  that 
has  so  long  lain  hidden  there,  is  all  brought  to 
light.  Old  memories  swim  in  the  brain,  just  as 
panoramas  are  unrolled  on  canvas.  Long-forgotten 
faces  pass  again  before  the  vision,  as  full  of  life, 
and  vivacity,  and  expression,  as  if  they  were  por- 
traitures, hanging  against  the  opposite  wall.  Old 
bits  of  chimney-corner  tales  on  these  days  only  are 
exhumed  from  the  rubbish  of  memory ;  and  all 
the  associations  that  hang  about  them  like  a  golden 
veil,  make  indeed,  for  the  time,  a  precious  treasure- 
house  of  the  heart.  And  if  sadness  settles  down 
over  all,  it  is  not  as  a  heavy  pall,  through  whose 
folds  the  light  does  not  come ;  it  is  a  gauzy  veil, — 
a  tinted  atmosphere,  through  which  the  thoughts 
seem  hallowed  and  delightful. 

A  Poetic  fancy  sees  in  the  soft,  still  rains  of  Sum- 
mer what  plain  minds  fail  to  detect.  The  honest 
husbandman  stands  under  his  dripping  trees,  and 
runs  his  eyes  over  his  pastures,  his  grain-fields,  and 
his  vegetable  crops,  anxious  chiefly  to  measure  his 
probable  gain  from  the  shower.  It  is  all  a  matter 
of  business  to  him.  He  sees  profit  and  loss  only. 
But  the  man  of  cultivated  fancies,  more  than  this. 


SUMMER   RAIN.  67 

"  He  can  behold 
Aquarius  old 

Walking  the  fenceless  fields  of  air ; 
And  from  each  ample  fold 
Of  the  clouds  about  him  rolled 
Scattering  everywhere 
The  showery  rain, — 
As  the  farmer  scatters  his  grain. 

"He  can  behold 
Things  manifold 

That  have  not  yet  been  wholly  told, — 
Have  not  been  wholly  sung  nor  said. 
For  his  thought,  that  never  stops, 
Follows  the  water-drops 
Down  to  the  graves  of  the  dead, 
Down  through  chasms  and  gulfs  profound, 
To  the  dreary  fountain-head 
Of  lakes  and  rivers  under  ground ; 
And  sees  them,  when  the  rain  is  done, 
On  the  bridge  of  colors  seven 
Climbing  up  once  more  to  heaven, 
Opposite  the  setting  sun." 

If  it  be  June,  and  you  are  a  disciple  of  poetic  old 
Walton,  you  will  try  the  brooks,  though  the  rain 
soaks  you  through  and  through.  June,  of  all 
others,  is  the  angler's  month ;  especially  if  you  can 
catch  a  wet  day,  and  the  brooks  rising.  Cut  the 
acquaintance  of  those  prejudiced  people  who 
"tush "and  "pish"  at  the  healthy  diversion,  and 
come  along. 

Stroll  down  beside  this  harum-scarum  little 
stream,  hardly  bigger  than  a  thread  itself,  and 


68  CAP  SHEAF. 

suffer  your  fly  to  dance  over  the  tips  of  the  wave- 
lets on  your  way ;  and  as  it  takes  their  motion  at 
length,  \e\  it  stretch  naturally  out  into  the  little 
basin  below  yonder  rapids,  or  swim  silently  on  the 
glassing  water  beneath  the  undermined  bank  be- 
yond. Carefully — carefully! — as  I  live,  a  bright- 
eyed  fellow  has  spied  your  lure,  and  his  tail  is  set 
for  the  fatal  spring!  Therefore  you  will  hold 
steadily  for  him.  Let  your  line  run  itself  well  out. 
Infuse  all  confidence  in  him ;  for  if  he  doubts,  he 
is  lost  to  you. 

What  a  leap !  He  has  it  now !  He  runs  down- 
ward !  Humor  him  a  moment,  for  he  is  strong, 
and  it  will  best  repay  you  so.  Now  draw  your 
prize.  Aha  !  how  your  heart, — a  moment  ago  so 
leaden  and  lumpy  with  your  prejudiced  ideas  of 
fishing — how  your  heart  throbs,  and  leaps,  as  if  it 
would  leap  to  your  very  throat !  How  swiftly 
your  pulses  play ;  and  what  a  wild  excitement  has 
suddenly  flashed  over  you!  You  see  him  now, 
don't  you  ?  A  couple  of  pounds !  When  the 
water  parted  for  his  exit,  how  fresh  and  bright 
looked  his  broad,  white  belly ! — and  what  mottled 
colors,  and  iridescent  streaks  bedecked  him ! — how 
those  spots  of  purple  and  gold  beautified  him  from 
neck  to  tail ! 

Is   there   no   healthy  excitement  in  this  ? 

None  ? — You  know  too  well  what  it  is,  to  falsify 


SUMMER   RAIN.  69 

now.  You  are  excited  as  much  as  you  can  be 
already. — A  waste  of  time,  say  you, — this  angling 
in  the  silver  brooks  that  lace  the  meadows  ?  Not 
so ;  not  so. 

The  sun  has  just  come  through  the  watery  clouds, 
and  the  air  is  still  full  of  sailing  vapor.  You  can 
see  the  rain-drops  still  floating  between  yourself 
and  the  surt.  The  golden  rays  fall  on  a  grass-tuft, 
and  there  you  seat  yourself  for  a  few  moments. 
Your  eyes  are  filled  with  the  most  beautiful  pic- 
tures. Your  ears  are  saluted  with  the  strains  of  a 
thousand  singing  birds,  just  broke  out  in  melody. 
Here  the  little  brook  creeps  stealthily  out  from  the 
deep  jungle  of  birch  and  hazel,  and  begins  its  bab- 
bling joy  down  through  the  meadow,  as  if  glad  at 
having  escaped  its  sylvan  confinement. 

You  may  learn  patience  here.  You  may  learn 
philosophy.  You  must  learn  purity,  and  simplicity, 
and  truth,  and  love.  The  song  of  the  brook  shall 
drown  out  all  the  jangled  discords  that  the  evil 
world  has  crowded  into  your  ears.  Its  pellucid 
stream  shall  wash  your  heart  clean  of  all  taint,  and 
wicked  thoughts.  Any  other  than  the  holiest 
thoughts,  upon  this  bank,  you  cannot  admit  to  your 
soul.  You  cannot  plot  evil — you  cannot  harbor 
malice.  For  the  time,  your  heart  has  become  clear ; 
• — beating  with  a  freedom  never  known  to  it  be- 


70  CAP  SHEAF. 

fore ; — set  in  motion  by  impulses  that  grow  stronger 
by  that  on  which  they  feed. 

There  breathes,  too,  such  a  calm  over  the  air, 

— it  must  be  of  heaven.  You  are  in  a  sweet  dream  ; 
but  it  is  a  waking  dream,  and  therefore  the  fuller 
of  joy.  You  go  beyond  yourself,  and  think  of  the 
Babel  voices  of  the  world  away  from  you; — of 
those  you  left  with  the  sweat  of  anxiety  on  their 
temples,  and  the  furrows  of  care  deepening  on  their 
brows ;  of  the  thousand  knotty  perplexities  that 
are  woven  to  tangle  your  feet  each  morning,  as  you 
go  through  your  chamber-door,  and  cling  to  you 
till  you  pillow  your  weary  head  at  night; — and 
then,  from  these  distant,  but  real,  scenes — as  if  you 
had  a  fairy's  gift — you  betake  yourself  again  to  the 
fresh  and  green  meadows ;  to  the  gliding  brook  ; 
to  the  noisy  chorus  of  the  gleeful  little  waves ;  to 
the  sleepy  whirr  of  the  hermit  frog,  in  the  pool 
close  by ;  to  the  occasional  plash  of  the  trout,  leap- 
ing for  his  prey ;  and  to  the  dreamy,  misty  quiet 
that  settles  itself  all  around  you. — Have  you  not 
profited, — nay,  have  you  not  grown  rich,  by  the 
contrast,  in  your  heart  ?  Call  you  this  a  wasteful- 
ness of  time?  If  yes, — then  are  you  poor  indeed. 
If  no, — then  throw  rod  across  your  shoulder 
often.  Learn  to  love  angling,  and  you  will  so  un- 
learn much  that  has  weighed  hardly  upon  you.  It 


SUMMER  RAIN.  71 

is  out  of  question,  that  a  true  and  devoted  follower 
of  Izaak  "Walton,  who  wets  his  lines  and  fills  his 
creels  with  a  simple  heart,  should  be  a  thoroughly 
base  or  bad  man. 

Alack !  that  the  whole  line  of  the  rainy 

days  of  Summer  might  be  marshaled  in  my  mem- 
ory again !  So  much  genial  pleasure  was  in  them. 
So  little  did  the  spirit  suffer  itself  to  chafe.  Such 
healthful  influences  then  took  root,  perhaps  for 
being  then  so  well  watered. 

Whenever  these  days  overtake  me,  I  am  given  to 
make  the  most  of  them;  whether  alone  in  my 
snug  and  dry  room  in  the  old  garret-corner ;  or 
journeying  by  forced  marches  with  others  in  jolting 
coaches;  or  doomed  to  do  penance  for  my  pre- 
sumption in  traveling,  by  being  immured  all  day 
with  a  few  rusty  and  drizzling  loungers,  in  an  old- 
fashioned,  low-roofed  country-inn. 


THE   AUTUMN   TINTS. 

T  IKE  a  huge  beaker,  filled  with  dazzling  dyes 
J-J  seems  the  vast  amphitheatre  around  me.  On 
all  sides  are  wooded  heights,  crowned  with  the 
clear  skies  of  Autumn. 

There  is  an  untold  glory  in  the  woods,  as  if  some 
lavish  hand  had  overlaid  them  with  rich  cloths  of 
gold,  wrought  after  rarest  patterns  of  broidery, 
and  fringed  with  skilful  combinations  of  every 
color  known. 

It  is  the  great  HARVEST  HOME  of  America. 

All  the  fruits  are  being  gathered  in.  The  broad 
plains  are  golden  with  the  slender  ears  of  the  yel- 
low maize,  and  red  with  the  bending  stalks  of 
buckwheat.  Laden  wains  go  creaking  down 
through  well-worn  cart-paths,  and  roguish  and  joy- 
ous boys  sit  upon  their  tops,  rolling  about  the  yel- 
low pumpkins,  or  husking  the  golden  corn.  Old 
barn-floors  are  strewn  with  the  ruddy  and  ripened 
fruits,  and  generous  granaries  are  filled  to  bursting 
with  the  products  of  the  fields.  Merry  laughter 
rings  on  the  still  air,  and  mingled  echoes  of  boys, 


THE   AUTUMN   TINTS.  73 

men,  and  dogs,  come  up  from  over  the  far-reaching 
plain  into  these  solemn  woods. 

It  is  as  if  some  grand  pageant  were  passing ;  or 
all  nature  were  busy  about  some  high  revel ;  or 
every  tree,  and  shrub,  and  vine,  had  joined  in  cele- 
brating a  gay  masquerade. 

The  ash  and  the  maple, — the  chestnut  and  the 
oak, — the  linden  and  the  aspen, — the  birch  and  the 
beech, — the  walnuts  and  the  elms, — the  vines  and 
the  creepers, — are  all  out  to-day  in  their  holiday 
attire,  to  celebrate  the  completion  of  the  rolling 
year.  Scarlet  and  crimson,  yellow  and  orange, — 
purple  and  red, — silver  and  gold, — cherry  and  lake, 
— vermilion,  and  pink,  and  green, — all  these  tints 
display  themselves  in  the  sheen  of  the  slanting  sun, 
crowding,  commingling,  and  melting ;  varying  ever, 
and  grotesquely  combining ;  and  again  blazing,  and 
flashing,  and  flaring,  each  above  the  other,  until  it 
seems  as  if  all  the  hill-sides  were  in  a  glow  of  many 
fires. 

But  a  few  days  since,  only  a  few  isolated  maples, 
planted  on  the  outskirts  of  the  woods,  and  seeming- 
ly half  inclined  to  leave  their  old  companions 
entirely  for  the  lowlier  life  of  the  plain,  had  array- 
ed themselves  in  these  fanciful  colors  of  Autumn ; 
as  if,  forsooth,  they  were  but  faithful  sentinels, — 
outposts  from  the  main  body,  whose  part  it  was  to 
give  early  notice  of  the  approach  of  the  Spirit  of 
4 


74  CAP  SHEAF. 

Autumn,  as  she  trailed  across  the  meadows  and 
over  the  uplands.  But  there  came  a  sharper  frost, 
breathing  its  strange  breath  over  all  the  leaves  of 
the  forest,  and  lo! — how  wonderful  the  sudden 
change !  The  trees  are  transmuted  into  glowing 
pictures.  How  incomprehensible  the  process ! — yet 
how  inexpressibly  gorgeous  the  effect ! 

Erecting  their  glittering  crests  one  above  another, 
and  throwing  out  their  broad  arms  as  far  as  they 
will  reach  from  their  bodies,  the  crowding  trees  are 
at  this  moment  glowing  with  splendor. 

It  is  as  if  a  million  banners  were  hung  from  the 
outer  walls  of  some  high  battlement,  and  all  were 
slowly  waving  and  sailing  in  the  gay  and  gladsome 
wind.  It  is  as  if  a  million  shields,  all  of  burnished 
silver  and  gold,  were  clattering  in  the  gusty  onsets 
of  the  breeze,  and  reflecting  back  again  the  myriad 
shining  lances  shot  from  the  rays  of  the  warm  sun. 
It  is  as  if  flags  and  streamers  were  everywhere 
trailing,  and  everywhere  waving,  and  everywhere 
dancing  and  glancing  in  the  sunlight ;  as  if  some 
generous  spirit  of  the  air  had  gathered  up  all  the 
hues  and  tints  of  the  whole  year,  and  wrought 
them  into  all  the  rich  and  fantastic  forms  imagina- 
ble ;  as  if  a  great  army  were  silently  ranged  around 
me,  decked  in  the  most  gorgeous  trappings  that 
wealth  and  ambition  eould  supply.  Nay,  rather 
than  all,  it  is  as  if  all  the  gods  and  goddesses  of 


THE   AUTUMN   TINTS.  75 

the  seasons  had  met  together,  each  contributing 
something  to  the  beauty  and  brilliancy  of  the 
famous  show. 

The  woods  in  Autumn,  when  this  matchless 
variety  of  colorings  is  upon  them,  are  more  allur- 
ing than  at  any  other  season  of  the  year.  At  no 
other  time  is  there  such  softness  in  the  atmosphere, 
inviting  so  soothing  a  dreaminess,  and  lulling  the 
soul  into  such  repose ;  even  as  the  senses  are  sooth- 
ed by  the  balmy  blowing  of  south  winds. 

Never  does  one  behold  such  indescribable  skies, 
— whose  depths  seem  like  pearl, — color  after  color, 
and  tint  after  tint,  melting  imperceptibly  into  the 
liquid,  stainless  azure  beyond.  And  to  enhance 
this  dreamy  beauty,  as  well  as  to  subdue  still  more 
effectually  the  feelings,  an  unseen  hand  has  flung 
over  all  a  gauzy  veil ;  so  hazy,  so  much  more  light 
and  airy  than  gossamer  itself,  as  to  half  bewilder 
the  eye  of  the  beholder,  and  make  him  believe  he 
is  in  reality  transported  to  other  lands, — the  lands 
of  fable  and  story. 

So  wonderful  a  change  in  the  hues  of  the 

foliage,  will  not  fail  to  interest  one,  even  if  consid- 
ered in  detail.  These  masses  of  rich  coloring  will 
lose  none  of  their  bewildering  effect  in  the  behold- 
er's eye,  if  they  are  regarded  separately,  or  in  single 
groups. 


76  CAP  SHEAF. 

First  and  foremost  of  all,  in  point  of  variegated 
and  vivid  beauty,  is  the  maple.  Of  this  tree  there 
are  two  species, — the  soft,  and  the  rock,  or  sugar 
maple.  The  leaves  of  the  former,  are  of  a  brilliant 
scarlet,  from  the  highest  to  the  lowest  cluster; 
while  those  of  the  latter,  are  but  an  unbroken  field 
of  gold.  At  another  time,  the  one  is  crimson, 
while  the  other  is  a  bright  red.  Again,  the  one 
flaunts  a  variety  of  tints,  such  as  a  glomeration 
of  yellow  and  green,  pink  and  red  ;  while  the  other 
is  delicately  shaded  with  purple  hues,  more  rich 
and  rare  than  the  Tyrian  dyes  of  world-wide  re- 
nown. Then  there  stand  others, — whether  of  the 
soft  or  rock  species — whose  leaf-laden  branches 
combine  all  these  colors  indiscriminately ;  as  if  the 
hand  that  distributed  them,  were  far  more  ambi- 
tious of  prodigality,  than  of  artistic  refinement  and 
exactness  of  distribution. 

The  chestnuts  are  vast  sheets  of  gold ;  and  they 
rear  their  crests  as  proudly,  as  if  they  felt  that  all 
their  ephemeral  drapery  was  gold  itself  in  very 
truth.  They  resemble  lofty  columns,  glistening 
afar  off  in  the  unbroken  sunlight. 

The  oaks  are,  some  of  them,  at  times  yellow,  yet 
they  more  generally  dye  their  robust  leaves  in  a 
deep  scarlet,  looking  as  if  their  sturdy  branches 
were  alive  with  flames  of  fire. 


THE  AUTUMN  TINTS.  77 

Purest  silver  on  the  branches  of  the  aspen  tree, 
contrasts  beautifully  with  the  glare  of  gold  upon 
its  round,  smooth  leaves. 

The  linden  tree  wears  a  livery  of  pure  orange. 
It  looks  as  if  it  might  be  the  footman  to  some  of 
its  more  wealthy  and  proud  neighbors. 

Peculiar  tinges  of  yellow  have  touched  the  leaves 
of  the  ashes, — the  walnuts, — the  birches, — and  the 
elms.  Sometimes  they  look  like  gold ;  and  again 
they  grow  pale  by  immediate  contrast  with  the 
neighboring  chestnuts.  Sometimes,  too,  there  are 
hues  of  delicate  purple  upon  many  of  the  ashes, 
that  set  charmingly  upon  the  more  vivid  colors  that 
generally  form  their  background. 

The  Virginia  creeper — a  vine  quite  common  in 
our  woods — has  its  leaves  tipped  with  a  brilliant 
cherry -color. 

The  dogwood  is  enveloped  in  a  robe,  in  color 
approaching  to  lake. 

The  pepperidge,  or  black-gum  tree,  wears  a  suit 
that  is  almost,  if  not  quite,  purple. 

The  sumach,  with  its  long  branches  of  red 
berries  thrusting  themselves  through  to  the  sun, 
dons  a  robe  of  the  brightest  scarlet. 

The  locusts  and  sycamores  are  usually  a  dull 
yellow ;  presenting  no  attractions,  as  individuals, 
to  the  roving  eye,  yet  never  opposing  the  obstacle 
of  an  unpleasant  contrast  to  any  of  the  vivid  tints 


78  CAP   SHEAF. 

that  employ  their  wealth  in  this  great  Autumnal 
drapery  of  the  forest. 

The  poplar  is  likewise  of  a  pale  yellow,  as  is 
also  the  willow,  whose  leaf  was  but  lately  shining 
underneath  with  fibrous  silver. 

From  my  position,  I  readily  discover  that  the 
tints  of  those  trees  nearest  me  are  best  defined,  and 
creative  of  the  most  vivid  impressions ;  yet,  as  my 
eye  gathers  in  the  scene,  little  by  little,  and  wan- 
ders dreamily  back  over  the  leaves  that  throng  by, 
millions  upon  the  higher  grounds, — although  I  am 
not  able  to  get  such  distinct  and  definite  impressions, 
I  am  quite  as  much  dazzled  and  bewildered  with 
the  rare  combinations  of  the  various  masses. 

If  the  colors  are  brighter  in  the  foreground,  the 
tone  melts  and  grows  subdued  as  my  eye  recedes 
farther ;  until,  in  the  most  distant  backgrounds,  a 
blending  of  tints  fairly  blazes  upon  my  vision, 
whose  individual  beauties  and  characteristics  it  is 
beyond  human  power  properly  to  describe.  And 
it  is  this  view  of  the  whole  scene,  that  properly  pro- 
duces its  effect  on  the  human  feelings.  It  is  this 
crowded  sense  of  a  full  and  fervid  glory,  that  Over- 
comes the  ordinary  mind,  and  defies  all  the  bounds 
that  have  been  studiously  set  to  the  dullest  imagi- 
nations. 

Walk  farther  into  the  woods. 

You  feel  at  once  a  strange  sensation.     You  fancy 


THE  AUTUMN  TINTS.  79 

that  some  new  spirit  rules  in  the  air,  and  charms 
the  saddened  insect-voices  that  you  hear.  You 
have  a  sense — though  by  no  means  an  oppressive 
one — of  the  presence  of  some  hiysterious  power 
that  broods  in  your  thoughts,  and  steals  impercep- 
tibly over  your  whole  soul.  It  is  nothing  more 
than  the  ordinary  influence  that  ever  haunts  the 
solemn  Autumn  Woods. 

As  you  walk  slowly  on,  you  discover  the  nice 
exactness  with  which  Nature  has  dyed  every  leaf. 
Not  one  seems  to  have  been  overlooked,  or  forgot- 
ten. Even  the  tenderest  shoots  of  the  beech  and 
the  maple,  fling  out  as  gaudy  banners  as  the  lofty 
trunks  they  may  some  day  come  to  emulate.  The 
creeper  wreathes  the  trees,  just  as  affectionate  rose- 
vines  cling  to  painted  pilasters ;  and  its  leaves  are 
variegated  with  every  shade  of  coloring.  Deep 
within  some  cloistered  recess,  the  vine  of  the  wild- 
grape  runs  in  all  its  untrained  luxuriance ;  and  the 
purple  cheeks  of  its  clustering  fruit  tell  too  plainly, 
that  the  frost  never  forgot,  while  on  its  other  errand, 
to  bestow  on  them  a  wanton  kiss. 

What  a  place,  of  all  others,  to  sit  and  dream,  is 
such  a  moss-cushioned  rock  as  the  one  exactly 
before  us !  How  delicious  are  the  airs  that  bathe 
your  brow  !  How  full  seems  every  thought, — how 
burning  every  fancy, — how  sweetly  saddened  every 
memory !  What  mellow  floods  of  light  let  them- 


80  CAP  SHEAF. 

selves  down  through  the  painted  leaves  upon  the 
mosses  at  your  feet, — even  as  the  sun-set  streams 
through  stained  windows  into  the  aisles  and  arches 
of  some  old  cathedral !  What  a  holy  hush  broods 
in  the  whole  atmosphere ;  embalming  your  dreamy 
fancies  in  a  misty  halo,  that  will  wreath  itself 
closely  about  them  forever ! 

In  my  wanderings  through  the  long  aisles 

and  alleys  of  these  woods,  I  fall  in  with  some 
sluggish  pond,  or  pool,  whose  silvered  surface  is 
beginning  to  be  laden  with  the  leaves  that  have 
thus  early  fallen  from  their  stems.  They  mottle  it 
with  a  gay  beauty.  There  are  the  red,  the  green, 
the  purple, — the  scarlet,  the  crimson,  the  pink,  the 
yellow,  and  the  gold, — all  sailing  upon  the  liquid 
surface  that  is  soon  to  become  their  crystal  coffin- 
lid.  Some  of  them  seem  still  to  bear  themselves 
proudly  on  the  lakelet's  bosom;  as  if  they  were 
gay  argosies,  freighted  with  the  glittering  wealth 
gathered  from  the  quest  of  some  golden  fleece. 

The  squirrels,  red  and  gray,  are  racing  about  me 
in  full  fervor  of  excitement,  their  capacious  cheeks 
distended  with  liberal  loads  of  corn,  gathered  on  a 
recent  predatory  excursion.  They  fly  from  limb 
to  limb,  and  from  tree  to  tree,  as  if  they  were  made 
to  walk  the  air  itself,  in  their  swift  journeys. 

The  jays  are  keeping  up  their  music  among  the 
trees ;  and  the  old  crows  are  hoarsely  cawing  in  the 


THE   AUTUMN  TINTS.  81 

distance.  There  are  the  voices  of  many  insects 
around  me,  among  which  sounds  distinctly  the 
friendly  chirp  of  the  little  crickets. 

These  woods ! — oh,  these  solemn  woods ! 

It  cannot  be  in  their  tints  alone,  that  I  find  so 
many  endeared  associations. 

It  cannot  be  alone  in  their  solemn  grandeur,  that 
I  find  material  out  of  which  to  weave  such  quaint 
and  charming  fancies. 

It  is  not  in  any  one  of  their  peculiar  charms — • 
peculiar  to  the  autumnal  season — that  I  find  the 
invisible,  yet  irresistible  guidance  of  these  delicious 
influences. 

But  it  is  in  all  these  combined, — in  the  bewilder- 
ing tapestries  flung  over  the  trees,  in  the  soft  and 
genial  sunshine,  in  the  gauzy  veil  that  is  draped 
about  the  woods  and  over  the  plains,  in  the  dreamy 
atmosphere, — that  the  Spirit  of  Autumn  exhibits 
herself,  and  exerts  her  mysterious  influences. 

I  love  to  stroll  through  the  long  lanes,  and  roam 
across  the  old  pastures,  on  such  days  as  this.  At 
every  forward  step,  my  eye  is  enchanted  with  some 
novel  union  of  colors, — some  new  form  of  beauty. 
The  lanes,  on  either  side,  are  crowded  with  maples 
and  beeches,  some  of  which  present  solid  masses 
of  gold,  and  others  of  the  most  vivid  crimson. 
Wild  vines  drape  the  gray  old  walls  with  the 
wealth  of  their  tints,  making  them  appear  as  if 

4* 


82  CAP  SHEAF. 

huge  and  costly  embroideries  had  been  lavishly 
flung  over  them.  Even  the  diminutive  bushes  that 
skirt  the  edges  of  the  lanes  and  pastures,  have 
changed  their  native  colors  into  a  not  unpleasing 
red,  ambitious  to  appear  like  all  the  rest  of  inani- 
mate nature  in  the  season  of  this  gay  carnival. 
The  wild  blackberry  and  raspberry  vines  likewise 
wear  liveries  of  a  red  ground,  yet  variegated  and 
adorned  with  the  admixture  of  other  hues. 

From  the  entrance  to  these  pastures  my  vision 
stretches  over  a  large  and  beautiful  expanse  of 
country.  I  see  the  harvesters,  busy  in  the  distant 
buckwheat  and  maize-fields,  and  hear  the  many 
merry  sounds  by  which  they  testify  their  deep  joy 
for  the  season.  From  this  point,  the  view  of  the 
far-off  woods  seems  more  magnificent  than  ever. 
Such  a  harmonious  blending  of  so  many  colors, — 
such  undying  brilliancy  to  the  wrhole  pageant, — 
such  a  filmy  veil,  drawn  lightly  between  myself 
and  all  else  beyond, — such  a  yellow  and  genial 
sunshine, — what  can  be  more  enchanting  than  are 
all  these  ? 

Even  if  these  holy  days  of  the  Autumn  Time 
do  so  imperceptibly  generate  a  feeling  of  sadness, 
it  is  a  sadness  that  always  brings  along  with  it  its 
own  pleasure.  The  thoughts,  and  feelings,  and 
emotions,  are  all  insensibly  etherealized,  in  the 
midst  of  these  quiet  influences ;  and  impulses,  that 


THE   AUTUMN   TINTS.  83 

but  a  brief  time  ago  were  fullest  of  selfishness  and 
pride,  are  baptized  now  in  the  flood  of  an  atmos- 
phere that  gives  a  purer  and  a  healthier  life  to  the 
soul. 

The  sweetness  of  this  sadness,  of  which  all  sensi- 
tive hearts  are  full  at  this  season,  must  be  the  fruit 
of  the  placid  joy  raised  by  such  glorious  sights 
upon  a  vast  landscape.  The  gay  colorings, — - 

"  Brighter  than  brightest  silks  of  Samarcand," 

reflect  their  own  peculiar  light  upon  the  heart  that 
is  rightly  attuned.  The  genial  sunlight  warms  it 
into  a  healthy,  yet  subdued  fervor.  The  hazy 
atmosphere  bathes  it  in  purest  airs,  expelling  or 
choking  entirely  the  fogs  that  long  have  blinded  it 
to  its  true  enjoyment. 

These,  and  the  like  of  these,  are  the  pleas- 
ures— both  outward  and  inward — that  cluster  about 
these  charming  Autumn  days.  They  are  pleasures, 
too,  none  are  licensed  to  enjoy  so  much  as  they 
who  are  ardent  lovers  of  Nature  in  all  her  forms ; 
they  who  keep  their  hearts  simple  and  undefiled ; 
they  who  turn  oftenest  within  themselves  for  their 
truest  happiness;  and  they  who  see  in  all  this 
pomp  and  splendid  array,  only  the  profuse  handi- 
work of  a  great  God  over  all. 

To  the  woods — to  the  woods,  then,  ye  deni- 


84  CAP  SHEAF. 

zeiis  of  pent-up  cities,  who  never  draw  in  fresh 
breaths  of  unadulterated  air,  or  bare  y.our  brows  to 
the  holy  influences  of  the  woodland  winds !  Fling 
down  book  and  pen  !  Fling  away  note-books  and 
huge  ledgers !  Break  the  strong  fetters  of  social 
exaction  and  social  pride,  as  if  they  were  only 
green  withes  about  your  feelings, — and  away  to 
the  gorgeous  woods  during  this  unsurpassedly 
brilliant  festival !  Join  heartily  in  the  grand  tri- 
umph of  Nature  I  Shout,  and  sing,  and  make 
merry,  for  this  season  of  the  great  Harvest  Home  ! 
Lift  up  your  voices  to  the  very  skies,  till  they  pene- 
trate to  the  empyrean  itself !  For  this  is  the  thanks- 
giving of  the  year; — the  showy  pageant,  whose 
equal  is  not  in  any  of  the  carnivals  that  earth's 
inhabitants  unite  to  celebrate. 


THE    FIKST    SNOW. 

YOU  wake  in  the  morning, — thrust  aside  the 
window-curtain, — rub  your  eyes,  as  if  you 
might  be  deceived, — and  take  another  look. — 
SNOW  ! 

Yes, — Winter  at  length  is  here.  It  fills  your 
heart  with  strange  feelings,  and  you  muse  pleas- 
antly as  you  continue  to  gaze. 

The  walks  in  the  yard  are  covered  with  the 
whiteness,  till  they  are  buried  out  of  sight  alto- 
gether. The  sills  are  heaped.  The  tops  of  the 
fences  are  coated,  in  long,  high,  and  narrow  ridges. 
Caps  of  fleecy  snow  are  upon  the  posts,  and  they 
like  ancient  hussars,  with  white  caps  and  frosty 
beards.  Everything  out  of  doors  is  dressed  in 
masquerade.  And  all  this  has  been  done  in  a  single 
night,  while  you  have  been  sleeping.  Only  yester 
evening,  when  you  last  looked  out  at  your  cham- 
ber-window, the  ground  was  bare,  and  dark,  and 
cheerless ;  the  wagon- wheels  rumbled  heavily  over 
the  frozen  hobbles :  the  sky  was  gray,  and  dark, 
and  full  of  gloom.  But  now,  a  magic  power  has 


86  CAP  SHEAF. 

changed  all.  You  think  you  must  have  made  some 
fairy  journey  during  the  night,  and  that  a  new 
realm  spreads  out  before  your  vision  now.  And 
you  look  out  upon  the  snowy  waste  with  as  much 
delight  as  when  you  were  a  child  of  but  a  half 
dozen  years,  and  shouted  gayly  at  the  First  Snow 
in  the  early  morning. 

How  still  is  the  air !  If  voices,  or  echoes,  reach 
you,  they  have  a  smothered  sound.  The  snow  is 
still  falling.  It  has  been  steadily  falling  all  the 
night.  The  white  flakes  have  descended  on  the 
roof  like  angels,  with  their  blessings.  They  have 
thrown  a  white  cloak  over  the  whole — ridge-pole, 
gables,  and  dormer-windows.  Every  thing  looks 
so  fantastic  !  You  imagine  that  Nature  has  got  a 
new  freak  in  her  head,  and  will  never  be  done  with 
putting  off  and  on  her  fine  dresses. 

The  bushes  about  the  door  and  the  yard  hang 
heavily  with  the  fleecy  fruitage  of  the  night.  Upon 
the  fir-trees  large  masses  of  the  snow  have  fallen, 
and  the  boughs  bend  far  downward  with  their 
weight.  The  lawn  looks  no  longer  desolate  ;  and 
the  garden  does  not  seem  so  mournful,  with  the 
naked  bushes  and  dried  vines  scattered  over  it :  all 
is  spotless, — and  fair, — and  pure.  You  think  of 
washed  wool ;  but  it  bears  no  sort  of  comparison 
that  is  adequate.  Never  was  there  seen  another 
earthly  fleece  so  white  as  this. 


THE  FIRST  SNOW.  87 

The  round  rails  about  the  door-yard  are  heaped 
high  with  the  soft  snow ;  and  the  old  gate-bars  at 
yonder  pasture  are  almost  hidden ;  and  the  barn- 
roof, — and  the  sheds, — and  the  well-curb, — and  the 
dovecote,  are  all  buried  up.  A  stack  of  hay  that 
stands  out  in  the  lot  near  the  barn,  looks  as  smooth 
and  regular  as  a  cone ;  and  the  banded  ricks  of 
corn,  for  which  the  barn  had  no  room,  are  standing 
about  like  white  tents  pitched  on  a  spotless  field. 
The  snow  is  piled  and  crowded  upon  the  edges  of 
the  eaves,  as  if  to  see  how  much  could  hold  itself 
safely  there.  There  is  the  old  cart,  got  ready  for 
the  mill  the  night  before,  now  looking  like  a  huge 
drift.  Nothing  of  it  is  visible.  The  well  is  covered 
up,  and  you  could  find  it  only  by  the  early  morn- 
ing tracks  that  have  been  made  to  it.  Logs  at  the 
great  wood-pile  are  now  as  smooth  as  need  be, — 
the  knots,  and  gaps,  and  corners  all  rounded  off 
and  filled  up.  The  axe  is  buried ;  and  a  white 
line  shows  you  where  the  handle  is.  The  grind- 
stone is  out  of  sight.  Fowls  venture  beyond  the 
sill  of  their  homestead,  and  slump  in  to  their  heads. 
They  make  a  second  trial,  and  it  is  the  same ;  a 
third,  and  it  is  still  worse  ;  and  at  last  they  flap  their 
wings  in  flight,  rise  above  the  snow-banks,  and  fly 
with  a  loud  screech  and  cackle  to  the  shed  that 
protects  the  back  door.  The  crow  of  chanticleer 


88  CAP  SHEAF. 

from  his  roost  is  muffled  and  solemn ;  you  fancy  it 
might  portend  the  dawn  of  some  dreadful  day. 

The  old  horse  looks  out  over  the  scene  through 
the  window  near  his  stall,  neighing  for  human  com- 
pany. And  the  cattle  low  loudly  in  their  stanchions, 
as  if  they  knew  that  some  wonderful  change  had 
taken  place  out  of  doors.  The  patient  cows,  over- 
fed in  their  warm  range  of  stalls,  stand  waiting  for 
the  milk-maid ;  who  would  long  ago  have  filled  her 
brass-girt  pails  of  maple  with  their  frothy  milk,  if 
she  could  have  found  a  path  through  the  snow- 
depths  to  the  barn. 

At  last  the  cottage-fires  are  made.  You  know  it 
by  the  blue  smoke  that  curls  up  above  the  chim- 
neys. You  know  it  by  the  noises  of  the  children, 
who  have  just  awaked  to  the  excitement  of  the  new 
scene.  They  romp  from  chamber  to  chamber,  call- 
ing on  each  other  to  look  at  it  out  of  this  window, 
and  then  out  of  this.  They  have  a  hundred  "  ohs!" 
to  utter  with  all  the  views  of  it  they  get.  Their 
screams  are  heard  through  all  the  rooms,  and  rise 
to  the  old  garret-rafters.  They  tap  at  my  door,  and 
cry  out — "  Get  up  !  get  up,  and  see  the  snow  !" 

And  Betty  comes  up  after  them  presently,  and 
gets  them  into  something  like  what  she  styles 
"order,"  and  trundles  them  off  one  by  one,  still 
shouting  to  each  other  about  the  snow,  down  stairs. 
All  the  way  they  do  but  cry — "  See  the  snow  !  see 


THE  FIRST  SNOW.  89 

the  snow  !"  In  the  old  breakfast-room,  their 
chubby  faces  are  flattened  at  once  against  all  the 
lower  panes  of  each  window.  And  the  fire  begins 
to  blaze  and  roar  in  the  deep  throat  of  the  chimney ; 
and  the  flames  glisten  and  dance  in  the  breasts  of 
the  great  brass  fire-dogs  ;  and  steams  of  all  flavors 
rise  from  the  white-spread  table,  suggesting  to  the 
appetite  thoughts  of  a  warm  breakfast,  and  much 
comfort  thereat  and  thereafter.  Old  and  young 
gather  round  the  table.  The  white-haired  grand- 
sire  asks  the  blessing  of  Heaven,  with  his  shriveled 
hand  uplifted.  Grandmamma,  in  her  trim  lace  cap, 
wears  a  sweet  smile  on  her  sainted  face.  And  the 
bright-eyed  younkers  throw  alternate  glances  of 
delight  upon  the  welcome  table  and  the  deepening 
snow.  And  tongues  begin  to  run  ;  and  voices  to 
mix  and  mingle  in  a  pleasant  confusion  ;  and 
laughter  to  rise  among  all ;  and  kind  and  thought- 
ful words  are  said  at  the  board  for  the  poor. 

All  the  day,  I  sit  in  my  snug  apartment  in  the 
garret,  and  watch  the  falling  of  the  feathery  snow. 
At  first,  it  sifts  down  in  fine  showers,  powdering 
every  object  and  every  space  that  had  not  been 
powdered  before.  Then  as  the  light  grows  whiter 
and  brighter  in  the  sky,  and  the  pale  sun  struggles 
to  break  through  the  storm-banks  in  the  air,  the 
flakes  are  larger ;  and  fall  irregularly ;  and  sail  un- 
steadily on  their  way  down ;  and  reel,  and  pitch, 


90  CAP  SHEAF. 

and  stagger,  and  sink  at  last  in  the  soft  bed  of 
down  below.  The  little  snow-birds  flutter  in  flocks 
about  the  yard  and  garden,  alighting  in  fear  on  the 
currant  bushes,  or  dancing,  like  humming-birds, 
around  the  dried  bean-vines.  Paths  are  broken 
about  the  house,  and  men  turn  out  with  teams 
down  the  banked-up  road.  The  old  well -sweep 
creaks  again,  and  the  axe  is  heard  bluntly  at  the 
wood-pile.  The  cattle  make  the  range  of  the  barn- 
yard, and  the  spotless  snow  there  is  soon  trampled 
and  besmirched.  On  the  barn-floor  the  flail  thumps 
steadily,  whipping  out  the  smooth  grain  from  the 
bearded  head.  Corn-huskers  laugh  and  sing  over 
their  task  in  the  liberal  crib,  and  the  golden  grain 
is  shelled  out  into  huge  troughs  and  wooden  trays. 
Deep-toned  bells  ring  from  the  stables,  betraying 
the  impatience  of  boys,  and  making  snatches  of 
melodious  music  in  the  frosty  morning  air.  The 
earth  itself  is  covered  with  a  robe  of  beauty ;  and 
all  hearts  grow  glad  with  the  new  Spirit  that  has 
come  silently  down  with  the  snow. 

Looking  out  at  my  window,  with  a  comfortable 
fire  of  clean  ash  and  hickory  blazing  on  the  nar- 
row hearth,  I  look  far  into  the  long  Winter  that  is 
before  me.  Nay, — I  see  a  long  train  of  Winters, 
and  let  my  eyes  wander  down  their  snowy  vistas. 
Joys  that  are  not  yet  born,  rise  to  my  thoughts. 
Hearths  that  have  not  been  peopled  by  their  magical 


THE   FIRST  SNOW.  91 

circles  for  many  a  month,  are  now  hemmed  in  with 
life  again.  Chimneys,  from  whose  tops  smokes 
have  not  for  a  long  time  ascended,  are  wreathed 
with  white  and  blue  clouds  once  more.  I  go  over 
country  wastes,  where  cold  winds  howl  like  wild 
beasts  ;  and  into  dreary  and  leaf- shorn  woods, 
whose  skinny  arms  wave  and  toss  to  and  fro  in  the 
tempests;  and  upon  steel-surfaced  rivers,  ringing 
with  the  bright  blades  beneath  the  skaters'  feet ; 
and  around  lowly  cabins,  where  children  are  crying 
with  the  cold,  and  begging  for  food,  and  mothers 
are  feeding  them  with  hopes  instead  of  bread,  and 
groaning  in  their  hearts  for  the  dawn  of  brighter 
days  ;  and  through  spacious  parlors,  crowded  with 
beauty,  and  gleaming  with  dancing  lights ;  and 
into  cribbed  little  studies,  where  scholars  are  labor- 
ing as  others  cannot  labor ;  and  through  spacious 
kitchens,  steaming  and  smoking  with  good  fare  for 
hungered  stomachs ;  and  into  silent  rooms,  closely 
curtained,  with  slumbering  fires,  and  dim  sunlight 
dawning  in,  and  pale  faces  on  the  white  pillows, 
and  cups  and  phials  half  full  of  colored  liquids  on 
little  stands. 

This  First  Snow  has  drawn  the  white  curtain  of 
Winter  closely  about  me.  A  feeling  of  homeness  has 
fallen  newly  on  my  heart.  I  look  back  without  a  re- 
gretful memory  to  the  ended  Summer,  and  think  of 
its  braided  brooks,  and  glistening  grass,  and  rolling 


92  CAP  SHEAF. 

lawns,  and  welcome  shades ;  but  all  of  them  can- 
not extort  from  me  a  sigh.  They  are  gone.  The 
heaped  snow  has  buried  them,  and  the  little  brooks 
make  muffled  music  beneath  the  bridging  ice. 
They  give  me  constant  joys  by  their  remembrances. 
I  know  that  when  the  returning  suns  shall  have 
lifted  off  this  fleecy  veil  and  dissolved  these  crystal 
bands  of  ice,  they  will  all  come  back  again,  bring- 
ing with  them  the  birds  and  the  flowers.  The 
Winter  offers  its  ample  stores  of  pleasure  now. 
Its  granary  is  full  of  joys.  I  shall  find  them,  sit- 
ting here  by  my  little  hearth,  while  I  look  into  the 
leaping  flames,  or  lose  myself  in  the  dreams  that 
sleep  in  the  crumbling  white  ashes.  They  will 
come  to  me  as  I  look  out  at  the  window,  and  watch 
the  limited  daily  life  of  the  cows,  and  the  fowls, 
and  the  doves  wheeling  in  constant  circuits  about 
the  old  barn-roof.  They  will  return  to  me  in  the 
jangling  rhymes  of  the  musical  snow-bells,  and  in 
the  mingling  of  merry  voices  among  loads  of  huge 
furs.  I  shall  taste  them  in  the  glad  circles  about 
great  fires,  when  the  walnut  and  ash  logs  are 
blazing  and  glowing  on  wide  hearths,  and  old  tales 
are  told  in  the  dusky  corners,  and  nuts  and  "apple- 
jack" go  round  with  a  joke.  And  they  will  come 
closer  still  to  my  heart,  while  I  sit  in  the  corner- 
room  of  the  old  garret  and  hear  the  whije  snows 
sift  on  the  roof,  and  let  my  thoughts  go  out  freely 


THE   FIRST  SNOW.  93 

into  the  stillness,  and  play  with  the  fancies  that 
flock  to  me  in  the  gloom. 

The  old  times  come  back  to  life  again  in  the 
"Winter.  The  heart  then  broods  tenderly  over  the 
past.  Snow-fields,  against  which  the  weak  sun 
vainly  falls,  recall  the  sheeted  forms, — the  lonely 
graves, — and  the  pale  headstones.  I  watch  the 
marks  of  the  sun  upon  the  floor,  and  think  how 
soon  the  hand  may  stop  on  the  dial  of  my  own 
life  ;  and  I  earnestly  hope  the  old  friends  will  then 
know  me  again. 

The  bared  branches  of  the  trees  that  bend  with 
such  ghostly  motions,  are  constantly  wailing  and 
harping  laments  ;  and  the  driving  winds  are  racing 
and  scurrying  like  released  spirits  across  the  glisten- 
ing snow-crusts ;  and  eaves  stop  their  steady  drip- 
ping ;  and  the  fairy  frost-palaces,  and  armies,  and 
Gorgons  are  entire  upon  the  window-panes; — but 
the  heart  does  not  yet  grow  cold.  Nay,  its  warm 
life  is  rather  quickened.  It  feeds  now  more  upon 
itself.  Its  wealth  grows  instantly  greater.  Its  rich 
resources  expand.  And  the  -deep  and  patient  love 
of  one  other  heart,  beating  and  hoping  only  with 
your  own,  makes  this  still  Winter-life  all  the  more 
earnest,  and  truthful,  and  glad. 

The  books  that  lie  scattered  over  the  table  before 
you,  are  now  but  so  many  living  friends.  The 
compressing  influences  of  Winter  have  given  them 
a  new  worth,  making  them  speak  to  your  heart  in 


94  CAP  SHEAF. 

strangely  dear  and  familiar  voices.  The  dog  that 
curls  himself  on  the  thick  rug  at  your  feet,  seems 
to  plead  with  you  for  fellowship,  through  his  up- 
turned eyes.  The  very  pictures  on  your  low  walls 
are  clothed  upon  with  the  colors  of  a  new  being ; 
and  you  read  histories  in  their  looks. 

All  this  crowds  upon  me,  as  I  gaze  out  upon  this 
First  Snow.  The  joys — the  hopes — the  comforts — 
the  charities, — they  march  before  me  in  a  stately 
line.  I  think  that  Winter  has  full  as  many  de- 
lights as  the  other  seasons;  and  that  they  are  far 
deeper,  and  broader,  and  larger,  because  they  seem 
to  press  so  much  closer  about  the  heart.  I  call  up 
the  many  home-stories  that  cluster  in  the  chimney- 
corners  ;  the  crystal  echoes  that  have  slept  so  long 
in  the  high  rooms  of  the  old  mansion  ;  the  bright 
faces  that  were,  wont  to  be  lit  up  with  contagious 
smiles  and  the  flames  on  the  hearth ;  the  moonlit 
nights,  when  steel-shod  runners  glance  over  the 
crisp  snow,  and  smothered  voices  make  confusion 
beneath  bear-skins  and  buffalo-robes ;  and  long 
tables,  with  rows  of  gleaming  eyes  on  either  side : 
— and  my  heart  dances  and  bounds  with  exultation. 
]  think  there  is  nothing  but  joy  in  the  Winter. 
Even  its  gloom  is  flooded  with  a  living  light  The 
sparkles  of  feeling  shine  out  through  its  darkest 
hours,  just  as  phosphoric  fires  dance  in  the  waters 
during  the  night-watches  on  the  ocean. 

Yes, — I  am  glad  that  the  Winter  at  last  has  come ! 


THE    FIRE    FIENDS. 

AT  first,  it  was  only  a  stifled  cry,  as  of  a  person 
in  distress. 

The  winds  of  Winter  were  dashing  in  swift 
squadrons  down  the  street  ;  twisting  off  loose 
blinds ;  slamming  insecure  shutters ;  puffing  out 
sleepy  lights  in  dingy  lanterns ;  and  then  scurry- 
ing away  to  the  deserted  mole  that  stretched  far 
out  into  the  frozen  harbor. 

The  din  of  rattling  wheels  and  tramping  feet 
had  long  ago  died  out.  Only  the  mad  screech  of 
the  changing  winds,  or  the  clatter  of  the  crazy 
blinds  and  shutters,  broke  the  dismal  silence. 

The  lights  in  all  the  houses  of  the  street  were 
out ;  and  the  feeble  rays  from  the  sleepy  lanterns 
scarce  revealed  the  outward  shape  of  the  buildings  - 
on  which  they  fell. 

The  distant  clock  had  clanged  the  hour  of  mid- 
night from  its  lonely  watch-tower,  and  the  echoes 
of  its  iron  tongue  had  hardly  broken  in  the  strange 
angles  and  crannies  of  the  grotesque  roofs. 

The  cry  sounded  as  if  it  came  from  a  heart 


96  CAP  SHEAF. 

smitten  with  deep  terror,  and  had  spent  half  its 
strength  in  its  passage  over  livid  lips. 

"Fire!  Fire!  Fire!" 

It  was  so  faint,  one  could  hardly  distinguish  the 
fearful  syllable ;  yet  it  was  so  distinct,  that  it 
curdled  the  swift  blood  in  the  veins. 

-  Again  it  came.  This  time,  louder.  This 
time,  higher.  This  time,  more  deep  and  volumi- 
nous: — 

"Fire!  Fire!  FIRE!" 

There  was  no  mistaking  that  cry  then.  A  hun- 
dred strong  men  caught  it  up,  and  a  hundred 
strong  throats  poured  it  out  on  the  midnight  air. 
A  single  bell  rang  the  alarm  to  the  immediate 
neighborhood,  and  instantly  a  score  of  bells  caught 
the  fearful  tone.  The  air  above  the  gables  and 
roofs  was  peopled  with  voices  of  fear;  and  the 
close  and  narrow  streets  below  were  alive  with 
echoes  of  alarm.  Bells  and  voices  both  shouted 
lustily  in  the  midnight — 

"Fire!  Fire!  Fire!" 

The  street  was  filled  and  blocked  with  people. 
A  passage  through  it  was,  for  the  time,  impossible, 
for  its  narrow  throat  was  choked  up.  Every  body 
was  tossing  his  arms.  Every  one  was  screaming, 
and  shouting,  and  ordering,  and  entreating,  at  the 
top  of  his  voice.  The  place  looked  like  a  Pande- 
monium let  loose ;  every  man  a  mad  devil,  whose 


THE   FIRE  FIENDS.  97 

features  the  lurid  fires  lit  up  with  a  ghastly  and  un- 
earthly gleam. 

The  building  was  of  wood,  and  stained  with  the 
beating  storms  of  years.  On  either  side  were  sim- 
ilar structures,  united  closely  with  this.  Doom 
seemed  to  have  settled  down,  in  the  thick  smoke- 
cloud,  over  each  one  of  them. 

The  mad  fires  spouted  out  through  the 

sashes  of  the  windows ;  while  the  glass  melted  as 
by  magic,  and  run  down  upon  the  walk  in  a  silver 
flood.  They  thrust  their  fearful  forms  far  out  into 
the  street,  quite  over  the  heads  of  the  swaying 
crowd;  as  if  they  would  storm  the  barrack  of 
wooden  buildings  on  the  other  side.  Then  they 
wrestled  themselves,  like  furious  Gorgons,  into 
entangling  knots,  and  spiral  forms ;  and  lifted  their 
undulant  bodies  up  into  the  dark  midnight  sky. 
And  their  hot  breaths  were  poured  out  upon  the 
street  air,  almost  stifling  the  terror-stricken  mass 
that  fell  back  before  them. 

In  an  upper  room  a  young  child  was  still  sleep- 
ing. Her  window  opened  out  upon  the  roof,  whose 
dry  shingles  were  already  crackling  in  the  hungry 
jaws  of  the  Fire  Fiends.  She  had  not  yet  waked, 
but  lay  on  her  couch,  blissfully,  yet  frightfully, 
ignorant  of  the  demons  that  were  on  her  track. 

A  single  whiff  of  the  changing  wind,  and  the 
fire  fiends  had  mounted  to  the  roof.  Running 
5 


98  CAP  SHEAF. 

swiftly  along  the  moss-speckled  eaves,  they  crept 
slowly,  but  surely,  up  the  declivous  roof, — laying 
hold  firmly  by  each  row  of  shingles, — and  finally, 
pausing  at  the  window  of  the  child's  bed-chamber. 
They  climbed  up  at  the  window-sill,  and  looked 
in! 

The  picture  of   Innocence    should    have 

made  their  lurid  faces  pale  before  it. 

But  no ! — but  no  1  The  flames  glared  gleefully 
in  at  each  pane,  growing  bolder  with  the  view. 
They  licked  their  hungry  tongues,  as  if  in  sweet 
foretaste  of  the  delicious  morsel  that  was  theirs. 
They  gazed  at  their  victim  through  a  hundred 
jealous  and  fiery  eyes,  as  if  by  some  mishap  she 
might  be  stolen  from  them.  They  wreathed  the 
sill — the  casement — the  little  gable, — like  a  vine 
all  of  bright  fire,  and  luxuriant  with  flaming  foliage. 
They  clapped  their  hundred  red  hands  above  their 
heads,  and  screeched,  and  yelled,  and  hissed,  in 
their  great  glee. 

-  "  My  child  I    Save  my  child  /" 

It  was  a  wild  cry  of  agony  from  one  in  the  dense 
crowd  below.  The  shriek  of  the  woman's  voice 
rose  high  above  the  din  of  men  and  flames.  It 
pierced  the  thick  smoke-cloud,  and  reached  the 
very  room  in  which  the  child  lay.  And  the  jubi- 
lant Fire-Fiends  caught  the  wild  echo,  and  answered 
it  with  hissing,  hellish  laughter. 


THE   FIRE   FIENDS.  99 

The  cry  rose  again,  —  and  again.  The 

agonized  mother  could  do  no  more.  She  sank 
lifeless  to  the  ground. 

They  lifted  long  ladders  to  the  windows,  and 
brave  men  mounted  to  the  topmost  rounds.  But 
they  could  advance  no  farther.  A  wall  of  fire 
kept  them  out  at  the  door.  A  sheet  of  flame 
threatened  to  enwrap,  them  from  the  roof.  There 
was  no  advance.  The  room  could  not  be  reached. 

Meantime  the  glass  in  the  window  of  the  child's 
bed-chamber  fell  tinkling  on  the  floor,  and  the  hot 
breath  of  the  flames  awakened  her.  She  bounded 
into  the  middle  of  the  room,  and  stared  wildly 
around  her.  She  was  as  rigid  as  a  statue  of 
marble. 

In  another  moment,  she  had  opened  the  door 
that  conducted  down  the  stairs.  But  she  as  quick- 
ly shut  it  again.  The  stairway  was  a  bank  of  liv- 
ing flames.  Fires  were  roaring  and  seething  on 
every  side.  The  legions  of  the  fiends  hemmed  her 
completely  in.  Neither  through  the  window,  nor 
through  the  door,  could  she  make  her  escape.  And 
she  stood  like  a  statue  there,  gazing  in  mute  agony 
at  the  death  she  knew  was  inevitable. 

A  ghostly  pallor  overspread  her  face.  Her 
auburn  tresses  were  strewn  carelessly  over  her 
shoulders  of  ivory.  Her  blue  eyes  were  set  in  her 
head,  and  all  the  time  glaring  at  the  fire.  Her 


100  CAP   SHEAF. 

little  frame  shook  like  an  aspen  leaf.  Her  hands 
were  tightly  clenched,  and  immovable  at  her  side. 

The  flames  threw  out  their  forked  tongues  at  her 
through  the  window,  and  winked  and  blinked 
fiercely  with  their  hellish  eyes.  They  wreathed 
themselves  into  all  manner  of  fantastic  figures; 
and  played, — and  wrestled,  —  and  danced, — and 
writhed,  —  like  serpents  together,  as  if  to  delight 
her  in  her  greatest  terror.  They  surged  upwards 
like  huge  billows,  and  their  crests  threw  off  a  row 
of  a  million  glittering  sparks.  Then  they  sunk 
down  to  the  window  again,  and  looked  in  at  the 
casement.  They  clapt  their  palms  over  and  over 
again.  They  continued  to  thrust  out  their  horridly 
sibilant  tongues.  They  screeched;  they  yelled; 
they  roared ;  they  hissed ;  they  sang. 

Then  they  beckoned  to  each  other  hurriedly,  and 
poured  into  the  room.  They  formed  a  circle  about 
the  child,  joining  their  fiery  hands.  They  danced 
around  her,  and  yelled  in  their  excess  of  joy. 
They  rose  to  her  breast,  each  moment  pressing 
more  closely  upon  her  form.  They  breathed  upon 
her  fair  shoulders ;  and  she  quaked  and  shivered 
with  fear.  They  blew  a  hot  breath  upon  her 
cheeks ;  and  she  gasped  for  life. 

Then  they  retreated  again  for  a  moment;  but  it 
was  only  to  return  with  freshly  whetted  appetites. 
They  kissed  her  neck.  They  laid  their  tongues 


THE   FIRE   FIENDS.  101 

upon  her  lips.  They  dallied  with  her  beautiful 
ringlets,  as  if  they  were  braiding  them  up  with 
bands  of  fire.  They  enfolded  her  at  once  in  their 
embrace,  and  fell  gluttonously  upon  her.  She  sank 
down  upon  the  floor. 

The  roof  fell  to  the  cellar,  and  a  legion  of 

sparks  flew  up  to  the  sky. 

Morning  came.  Hundreds  of  men  were  search- 
ing among  the  ruins. 

Only  a  handful  of  white  bones  lay  piled  up 

together ! 

The  mother  was  a  maniac. 


OLD    COUNTRY   INNS. 


is  a  charm  in  the  atmosphere  that  hangs 
JL  about  them,  and  there  always  will  be.  Ten- 
anted as  they  now-a-days  chiefly  are,  by  a  coterie 
of  village  loafers,  worn-out  whips,  male  gossips, 
and  seedy  coats,  —  they  are  nevertheless  fruitfully 
suggestive  of  times  when  congenial  intellects  were 
•wont  to  congregate  within  them,  and  sunny  hours 
were  notched  off  on  the  day's  calendar  in  their 
now  deserted  rooms. 

An  old  Tavern  —  nestled  down  in  the  hollow  of 
New-England  hills  ;  its  dimmed  sign-board  swing- 
ing and  creaking  in  the  wind,  as  it  swung  and 
creaked  full  fifty  years  ago;  —  to  a  mind  of  the 
least  sensibility  is  suggestive  of  the  pleasantest  of 
memories. 

You  see  the  expected  daily  coach,  rolling  and 
rattling  down  the  dusty  road;  its  horses  eagerly 
pressing  on  to  their  coveted  stables  ;  its  passengers 
thrusting  out  their  uncovered  heads,  to  see  if  they 
can  catch  a  view'  of  their  next  stopping-place  ;  and 
the  companionable  driver  exerting  himsolf  to  im- 


OLD   COUNTRY   INNS. 

press  beholders  with  the  idea  of  his  superior  quali- 
ties on  the  box.  People  group  about  the  Inn-door, 
anxious  to  catch  the  earliest  syllables  of  the  news, 
and  inquisitively  studying  the  faces  and  figures  of 
the  freshly  arrived  passengers.  Knots  of  boys, — 
all  looking  anxiously  at  the  driver  on  his  lofty 
perch,  and  many  of  whom  strive  to  clamber  up  the 
wheels  to  the  iron-railed  roof, — stare  at  the  passen- 
gers with  eyes  distended  with  wonder,  as  they  dis- 
mount, and  exchange  words  with  each  other  in  low 
tones  respecting  the  appearance  of  each  one  of  the 
travelers. 

If  it  be  evening,  or  towards  evening, — especially 
the  evening  of  a  rainy  day, — a  stage-coach  arrival 
to  a  loiterer  at  one  of  these  old  Inns,  is  absolutely 
refreshing.  Experienced  travelers  will  freely  bear 
me  out  in  this  assertion. 

What,  to  a  wearied  man,  who  has  been  trund- 
ling over  hills  and  plains,  and  through  deep  cuts 
and  valleys,  all  the  day  long,  brings  a  greater  store 
of  pleasant  visions  than  the  thought  of  reaching — 
just  at  dreary  nightfall — the  opened  tavern-door, — 
of  dismounting, — of  enjoying  an  agreeable  meal, 
and  a  subsequent  night  of  comfort  and  untroubled 
dreams  ?  What  a  golden  atmosphere  seems  to  hang 
around  the  spot  where  such  pleasing  visions  origi- 
nate! What  a  look  of  pure,  domestic  comfort 
gleams  from  the  blazing  logs  in  the  fire-place, — 


104:  CAP  SHEAF. 

from  the  ruddy  fire-dogs, — and  from  the  reddening 
panes  in  the  windows!  How  suggestive  is  the 
contented  face  of  the  waiting-maid  of  good  cheer, 
kind  care,  and  sincere  welcome !  How  delightfully 
and  dreamily  curls  the  blue  smoke  from  newly 
kindled  fires  above  chimney  and  roof ! 

And  if  it  be  just  at  nightfall  of  a  rainy,  dismal, 
suicidal  day,  when  blue-devils  bestride  a  man's 
imagination,  and  the  murkiness  of  the  clouds  an- 
swers but  tolerably  well  to  the  murkiness  of  the 
cheerless  traveler's  brains, — how  doubly  grateful 
becomes  the  glimpse  of  one  of  these  old  resting- 
places  !  The  current  of  one's  thoughts  sets  at  once 
in  a  different  channel.  An  oppressive  load  is  sud- 
denly taken  off  the  weighed-down  heart.  The 
spirits  begin  to  bound  with  a  fresh  elasticity.  The 
eye  kindles  again  with  a  blaze  of  momentary  en- 
thusiasm. 

Alas  for  the  good  old  days  of  stage  coaches  !— 
those  days  of  unaffected  sociability  for  travelers ; 
vof  unmolested  enjoyment  on  long  journeys;  of 
undivided  comfort  at  the  resting-places, — they  are 
all  gone  forever !  The  ancient  roads  are  all  grown 
over  with  broad  belts  of  grass,  where  but  so  lately 
were  rattling  the  coach's  lumbering  wheels.  Vines 
still  climb  over  the  moss-covered  walls, — and  prim- 
roses still  dot  the  green  sward  by  the  roadside, — 
and  hay-cocks  stand  thickly  over  the  adjoining 


OLD    COUNTRY  INNS.  105 

fields ;  but  the  old  stage-coaches  roll  by  them  all 
no  more.  Smiling-faced  travelers  have  ceased 
gazing  over  beautiful  landscapes ;  nor  do  young 
children  in  their  arms  refresh  themselves  with 
thick-coming  breaths  of  the  pure  country  air. 

The  winding  echoes  of  the  stageman's  horn  have 
died  away  in  the  hollows  of  the  distant  hills,  and 
the  fierce  screech  of  the  steam-whistle  has  driven 
out  all  the  lingering  memories  from  far-off  valleys 
and  glens.  The  coaches  stand  idle  beneath  lum- 
bered sheds,  —  their  wheels,  their  panels,  their 
leathern  springs,  their  seats,  all  coated  with  the 
dust  of  silent  years.  There  are  no  living  faces  to 
throw  out  bright  gleams  of  sunshine  from  the  win- 
dows. No  laughing  voices  are  to  be  heard  in  its 
pent-up  body.  Within  and  without, — all  is  silent, 
desolate,  and  deserted.  The  kindly  driver  has  got 
down  from  his  high  box,  and  no  one  has  gone  up 
to  sit  there  in  his  place.  The  horses'  hoof-prints 
are  not  marked  on  either  side  of  the  protruding 
pole.  Every  association  is  of  sorrow.  Every 
memory  is  tinged  strangely  with  regret.  There 
lives  not  a  single  recollection  in  connexion  with 
them  all,  that  is  not  shadowed  with  sadness  for  the 
departure  of  the  Olden  Time. 

On  a  mellow  and  sunny  day  in  early 

Autumn,  while  the  sight  of  one  of  these  ancient 
Inns  is  fruitfully  suggestive  of  genial  fancies,  it  is 

5* 


106  CAP  SHEAF. 

no  less  so  of  bright  pictures  of  the  Past.  Lofty 
elms  swing  their  majestic  boughs  protectingly  over 
its  moss-spotted  roo^  through  whose  golden  leaves 
dance  the  spots  of  shifting  sunshine.  There  is  a 
broad  piazza  all  around  it, — front  and  sides — and 
ample  benches  are  ranged  against  the  wall.  In  the 
middle  of  the  large  and  cleanly-kept  yard,  there  is 
a  pump;  and  a  huge  watering-trough  stands  be- 
neath its  nose. 

The  landlord  looks  as  he  looked  fifteen  long 
years  ago ;  only  his  face  is  not  so  often  as  then 
illumined  with  pleasant  smiles,  and  his  eye  does 
not  kindle  so  readily  with  enthusiasm.  The  sleepi- 
ness that  has  settled  down  about  the  place,  has 
dropped  down,  too,  upon  his  eyelids  ;  and  he  walks 
wanderingly  around,  as  if  in  vain  quest  of  faces  he 
would  see  again.  If  you  choose  to  accost  him,  he 
has  a  kind  word  for  you  ;  but  there  is  no  readiness ; 
nothing  like  the  former  elasticity  in  his  speech. 
He  does  not  exactly  mope;  yet  he  acts  like  one 
who  is  most  a  stranger  in  his  own  home.  Once  set 
him  down  at  one  of  our  newly  painted  "  railway 
hotels,"  with  the  clatter  and  confusion  roaring 
loudly  in  his  ears,  and  he  returns  to  his  old  haunts 
more  contented, — a  more  grateful  man  than  before; 
yet  he  longs  continually  for  something  he  has  not, 
and  looks  ever  for  those  who  do  not  come. 

Go  into  these  old  rooms  again, — the  cham- 


OLD   COUNTRY   INNS.  107 

her,  the  hostelry-room,  the  great  reception-room, 
and  the  dining  hall, — and  give  jour  fancies  free 
rein.  The  apartments  are  tenantless.  The  very 
echoes,  once  so  musical,  are  dead.  Voices  do  not 
answer  each  other  from  room  to  room,  nor  is  the 
kind  host's  name  any  more  pronounced  by  eager 
lips.  The  bustle  has  all  died  out.  The  paper  upon 
the  walls  is  mice-eaten  and  tattered,  and  hangs  in 
rags  down  to  the  floor.  There  are  huge  spider- 
webs  in  the  corners  and  angles,  and  upon  the  dusty 
ceiling,  where  once  the  housemaid's  busy  broom 
went  its  accustomed  rounds. 

Ladies  in  ruffs  and  rich  brocades,  with  gayly- 
attired  children,  and  long  retinues  of  servants, 
lighten  the  window-panes  no  longer  with  their 
beautiful  faces.  Maids  have  stopped  running 
breathlessly  from  chamber  to  kitchen,  and  from 
kitchen  to  chamber  again,  obeying  the  behests  of 
their  mistresses.  The  silence  that  has  so  long 
usurped  their  places,  could  hardly  be  more  unbro- 
ken if  it  were  the  silence  of  death  itself. 

Men  used  to  walk  briskly  about  the  premises, 
enjoying  every  moment  of  their  stay.  Now,  they 
only  lounge  listlessly  into  the  bar-room,  drink  a 
burning  dram,  and  lounge  lazily  out  again.  Save 
when,  on  some  winter's  day,  while  the  snow  spits 
furiously  upon  the  little  windows,  they  congregate 
in  squads  about  mine  host's  capacious  chimney, 


108  CAP   SHEAF. 

and  spirt  regularly  recurring  streams  upon  his  be- 
dimmed  fire. 

There  are  no  visitors  about  the  place  as  once 
there  were.  A  slender  amount  of  travel  in  private 
carriages,  at  this  day  of  smoke  and  steam,  is  the 
little  all  by  which  the  landlord  is  able  to  console 
himself,  and  keep  body  and  soul  together.  He 
does  not  live,  by  such  assistance ;  he  only  exists. 
Life  has  lost  its  main  zest  for  him.  He  seems  to 
be  inwardly  longing  for  the  pleasant  morning  to 
come,  when  he  shall  himself  set  out  on  his  last 
journey. 

1  undertake  not  to  break  a  lance  with  those 

who  make  it  a  business  to  laugh  at  sentiment  on 
such  a  subject  as  this.  It  is  a  subject  all  associa- 
tions and  mellow  memories.  Such  memories  are 
cherished  by  the  heart  simply  for  their  own  sake. 
It  takes  a  secret  delight  in  lingering  about  reminis- 
cences that  are  so  full  of  joy,  though  it  be  tempered 
somewhat  with  sadness. 

It  is  with  a  feeling,  too,  not  much  unlike  grief, 
that  we  view  these  stand-points  between  our  own 
and  the  former  times.  Because  we  all  know  that 
what  the  world  has  gained  in  the  matter  of  speed, 
it  has  lost  in  respect  of  solid  traveling  enjoyments. 
And  then  springs  up  a  deep  sympathy  with  the 
almost  isolated  race  of  companionable  landlords; 
who  could  not,  if  they  would,  desert' their  old  fields 


OLD    COUNTRY  INNS.  109 

of  service,  and  embark  in  the  stirring  adventures 
of  these  busy  times.  Their  ancient  homes  and 
haunts  are  associated  with  no  thoughts  but  those 
of  health,  happiness,  and  plenty.  We  cross  their 
decaying  thresholds,  and  think  of  the  scores  of 
friends  that  have  journeyed  away  from  them  for- 
ever. We  look  out  through  their  windows,  and 
remember  the  glad  faces  that  have  so  often  cheered 
them  through  those  same  panes.  The  lights  are 
gone  out  in  the  chambers.  The  gleaming  fire-dogs 
cease  to  glow  on  either  side  the  huge  chimney  in 
the  hall.  No  voices  are  there,  as  of  yore;  no 
laughter;  no  smiles;  no  joyous  countenances. 

The  Old  Inns  are  silent  and  untenanted. 

Who  doth  not  grieve  heartily  for  the  change  ? 


UNDER    THE    TEEES. 

STRETCHED  at  full  length  upon  the  soft  sward 
that  invites  me,  I  am  gazing,  on  this  golden 
Autumn  day,  at  the  profuse  wealth  of  the  land- 
scape. 

I  am  back  again  on  the  delicious  old  Home-spot. 
The  cries  of  the  distant  Babel  have  died  away  from 
my  hearing.  Its  clouds  of  smoke  and  dust  have 
vanished  from  before  my  eyes.  Its  crowds  have 
hurried  away  from  every  thing  but  my  memory. 
I  forget  all, — I  try  to  think  of  nothing  so  much  as 
the  soft,  hazy,  dreamy  atmosphere,  in  which  my 
senses  are  lulled  to  such  gentle  repose. 

Once  only  in  the  whole  year,  and  then  in  this 
clear  Autumnal  weather,  have  these  maples  such  a 
charm  for  me.  It  is  not  simply  the  shade  I  covet ; 
it  is  this  feeling  of  quiet  happiness ;  of  pure  and 
entire  satisfaction  ;  of  genial,  genuine  love  for 
every  body  and  every  thing.  I  am  drawn  to  this 
spot  by  it,  as  by  a  magnet.  I  behold  every  object 
through  a  thin  veil  of  delightful  illusion.  Things 


UNDER  THE  TREES.  Ill 

that  but  now  seemed  earthly  and  gross,  here  wear 
vestments  of  a  different  character. 

And  what  the  wonder  ?  Do  fairer  pictures  any- 
where glow,  than  those  at  this  moment  hung  up 
before  my  vision  ?  Are  colors  anywhere  to  be 
found  more  skillfully  and  gorgeously  combined? 
Is  there  a  hand  of  bone  and  sinew,  that  ever  held 
the  brush  so  daintily  as  Nature's  ? 

There  is  a  soft  veil  drawn  over  the  distant 

meadows,  and  slopes,  and  hill-sides,  as  if  only 
through  such  a  medium  their  brilliant  hues  should 
be  seen.  The  effect  is  really  enchanting, — so  sub- 
dued, so  dreamy,  so  half-light,  half-shadow,  do  all 
things  seem.  I  could  lie  here  in  this  mellow  sun, 
and  gaze  contentedly  on  such  a  landscape  for  hours 
together.  The  eye  would  never  tire,  nor  the  soul 
ever  become  surfeited.  It  is  as  if  some  pompous 
pageant  were  passing  slowly  before  me ;  its  whole 
line  of  march  arched  with  liquid  skies,  whose  spot- 
less azure,  and  whose  variegated  clouds  canopied 
all  with  a  matchless  beauty. 

I  think,  at  this  time,  of  all  that  Earth  holds  out 
of  promise ; — promise  no  less  to  so  quiet  a  dreamer 
as  myself,  than  to  the  husbandman  who  has  sweated 
through  the  suns  of  the  weary  summer  solstice. 
And  there  steal,  too,  into  my  heart,  sad  remem- 
brances of  those  who  long  ago  pressed  my  hand, 
and  faintly  murmured, — "God's  will  be  done  1" 


112  CAP  SHEAF. 

How  sweetly  do  these  memories  work  in  the  heart, 
on  such  a  time.  What  a  coloring  they  shed  over 
one's  thoughts,  and  purposes,  and  desires.  How 
much  more  etherealized — how  very  much  more 
radiant,  become  all  the  hopes  of  the  future, — ever 
vague,  and  ever  limitless. 

The  "golden  pomp  of  Autumn"  is  on  every 
side.  An  unseen  hand  has  flung  dyes,  more  bewil- 
dering than  dreams  themselves,  over  the  masses  of 
the  foliage,  and  the  dense  woods  are  blazing  with 
indescribable  beauty.  The  stately  chestnut  lifts  its 
head  proudly  above  its  fellows,  and  its  leaves  of 
yellow  gold  clatter  in  the  light  wind  like  so  many 
burnished  shields.  The  maples  are  all  purple,  and 
russet,  and  yellow,  and  red, — vieing  with  the  rest 
in  the  variety  of  tints  and  tinges.  Scarlet  and 
crimson, — russet  and  red, — purple  and  gold, — unite 
to  give  a  resplendent  drapery  to  the  closing  season. 
There  is  no  color  known  to  human  skill,  of  which 
Nature  has  not  furnished  the  first  exemplar  here. 

The  summer  vines  still  creep  over  the  moss- 
covered  walls,  and  cling  affectionately  to  the  forest 
trees ;  and  their  tender  leaves,  fanciful  as  the  shapes 
of  some  of  them  are,  have  already  put  on  the 
showy  livery  of  the  season.  Even  the  low  whor- 
tleberry-bushes in  yonder  pasture  have  so  far 
obeyed  the  requirements  of  this  fantastic  masquer- 
ade, as  to  consent  to  dip  their  small  leaves  in  colors 


UNDER  THE   TREES.  113 

of  flaming  red  and  vermilion.  The  silent  breaths 
of  the  frost,  that  pass  through  the  woods  in  the 
night  like  the  speechless  angel  of  death,  have 
touched  ll.e  cheeks  of  the  wild-grapes,  and  they 
hang  blushing  in  thick  and  purpled  clusters.  The 
leaves  of  their  vines,  however,  have  become  yellow 
and  crisp,  and  are  slowly  falling,  one  by  one,  to 
the  ground. 

It  is  so  unlike  the  Spring-tide  here  under  these 
trees, — yet  one  can  hardly  explain  the  peculiarity. 
There  is  no  feeling  of  strength  ;  of  new  courage ; 
of  ambition  rekindled  in  the  heart.  The  slanting 
sunshine  floods  these  meadows,  lays  up  against 
those  old  stone  walls,  and  streams  through  these 
thick  tree-branches,  with  a  far  milder  influence 
than  in  the  days  of  the  opening  Spring.  The  year 
is  going  out  through  the  gorgeous  western  gate. 
The  feeling  of  delicious  dreaminess  is  upon  me  as 
I  lie  here.  It  is  the  very  reverse  of  active  ambi- 
tion. It  would  quite  lose  its  charm,  and  destroy 
the  whole  of  its  effect,  if  it  were  broken  in  upon 
by  any  of  the  jarring  discords  of  ambition  or  ava- 
rice. 

Not  a  tree,  nor  a  bough, — not  a  shrub,  nor  a 
vine,  in  all  the  woods,  but  joins  to-day  in  the  grand 
carnival.  The  mountain-side  is  resplendent  with 
the  glory  of  colors,  inimitable  in  the  skillfulness 
of  their  combinations.  No  Gobelin  weaver  ever 


CAP  SHEAF. 

threw  such  variegated  hues  as  these  together.  No 
master  painter  ever  caught  such  tinges  from  his 
moments  of  inspiration,  and  afterwards  immor- 
talized them  on  canvas.  The  living  truth  of  the 
great  Poet's  saying  now  comes  vividly  upon  me, — 

"  There  is  in  Nature  nothing  base  or  mean," — 

and  I  am  made  doubly  happy  in  the  thought,  that 
this  illimitable  gallery  is  opened  so  freely  to  all 
hearts  and  eyes.  Each  tree  upon  the  hill-side 
crowds  ambitiously  by  the  side  of  its  comrade,  and 
flings  out  its  thousand  colors  like  bright  banners 
from  some  high  battlement.  Maple  and  birch, 
beech  and  ash,  chestnut  and  oak,  are  all  holding 
high  revel  to-day.  And  far  within  the  distant 
vista,  I  see  the  fiery-red  leaves  of  the  hardy  sumach, 
looking,  if  possible,  more  brilliant  than  any ;  per- 
haps because  it  is  not  permitted  to  rear  its  head  as 
high  as  the  rest,  is  it  allowed  this  compensation  of 
superior  brilliancy.  The  golden-rods  display  their 
scarlet  berries  in  the  open  pastures,  and  on  the 
skirts  of  the  wood;  and  about  the  rude  hedges 
grow  the  long,  draping  branches  of  the  inky  skoke. 
The  grass-spears  bow  with  a  sorrowful  sigh  before 
the  fitful  gusts  of  the  wind,  and  teach  many  a  sad 
lesson  of  the  final  decay  that  will  overtake  us  all. 

Yonder  plain,  stretching  far  away  on  the  low- 
lands at  my  feet,  is  already  crowded  with  the 


UNDER  THE  TREES.  115 

ripened  grain,  and  many  an  ear  of  the  golden 
maize  has  burst  its  sheaf,  to  greet  the  smiles  of  the 
genial  sun.  I  see  the  farmer's  wain  go  slowly  down 
the  winding  lane,  faithfully  following  the  worn 
cart-rut,  and  then  emerging  into  the  newly-opened 
harvest  field.  The  oxen  wait  patiently  till  the 
filled  husks  are  piled  into  the  cart,  perchance  so- 
lacing the  drowsy  moments  with  a  sly  bite  at  the 
nearest  stalks  and  ears.  Attendant  dogs  are  bark- 
ing at  some  predatory  animal  they  have  succeeded 
in  driving  into  the  wall,  and  the  clear  autumnal 
air  is  alive  with  their  sharp  echoes.  The  blissful 
boys  carry  the  bundled  stalks  to  the  huge  wagon, 
shouting  to  each  other  as  they  rustle  their  unsteady 
loads  against  the  standing  grain,  and  looking,  at 
this  distance,  as  if  they  were  but  bunches  of  mov- 
ing corn.  The  merry  "gee-up"  of  the  farmer  rises 
above  all  other  sounds,  and  the  patient  cattle  plod 
onward  till  called  to  again  in  a  much  louder — 
"  whoa — who." 

Ponderous  pumpkins  reveal  their  yellow  wealth 
between  occasional  corn-hills ;  and  when  at  length 
the  load  of  grain  is  all  made  up,  these  rotund 
treasures  are  borne  away  on  the  top  of  all  to  the 
"gude  housewife",  —  the  children  rolling  them 
about  on  the  load  at  each  other  in  mimic  quarrels, 
yet  jealously  careful  that  not  one  of  them  is  lost  to 
the  oven. 


116  CAP  SHEAF. 

And  there  go  loads  of  apples,  rich-flavored  and 
rare,  in  open  wagons  into  the  husbandman's  barns. 
They  look  like  piles  of  gold  to  me,  and  they  surely 
suggest  far  pleasanter  visions  : — of  unions  around 
the  blazing  hearth, — of  merry  parties, — and  of  de- 
lightful dreams  during  the  lengthened  evenings  of 
Winter.  And  what  a  wealth,  I  think,  do  the 
husbandman's  acres  bring  to  his  granaries  and 
barns  !  How  abundantly  doth  Nature  provide  for 
all  her  children, — and  how  lavish  is  she  with  all 
her  riches  !  And  yet,  how  very  far  from  grateful 
are  we  all  for  what  we  so  undeservedly  enjoy ! 

The  skies,  too, — the  skies !  Are  hues  more 

exquisite  than  theirs  to  be  found,  even  among  the 
skies  of  any  of  the  old  masters  ? 

I  see  only  the  lower  strips  of  the  heavens,  lying' 
here,  and  those  nearest  the  horizon.  They  are 
hung  about  with  this  light  haze,  more  airy  and 
thin  than  any  gossamer.  They  are,  however,  all 
blue,  and  the  very  haze  seems  but  to  make  them 
all  the  clearer.  Between  the  clustering  leaves  over- 
head, I  discover  patches  of  the  purest  azure.  There 
is  a  warmth  in  them,  too,  that  even  melts  its  way 
through  the  leafy  canopy,  until  it  kindles  a  similar 
warmth  in  my  own  heart.  I  fancy,  at  this  moment, 
that  I  see  farther  into  the  liquid  depths  of  heaven 
than  before ;  and  think  that  angels  are  there,  ready 
to  descend  to  earth  on  their  holy  errands. 


UNDER  THE   TREES.  117 

And  then  I  dream  of  those  gentle  ones, 

whose  dumb  and  pale  lips  I  long  ago  pressed  with 
my  own,  and  whose  last  syllables  were  but  express- 
ed hopes  of  a  reunion  above.  And  thus  I  keep 
dreaming  beneath  these  trees,  and  continue  gazing 
into  these  heavens  ;  for  my  soul  is  stirred  with  the 
holiest  impulses,  and  revelling  in  the  sweetest 
elysium.  The  white  slabs  that  reveal  themselves, 
as  a  fitful  gust  of  wind  blows  aside  the  leaves  upon 
the  lowest  boughs,  stand  only  like  pure  and  firm 
promises, — that  what  has  once  been  spoken  will 
most  surely  be  fulfilled. 

It  seems  proper  that  the  forests  should  deck 
themselves  in  their  holiday  apparel,  at  this  peculiar 
season.  It  is  the  great  Harvest  Home  of  the  year. 
Everything  is  being  gathered  into  its  garner.  The 
fruits  are  piled  in  heaps  on  spacious  floors,  and  the 
golden  maize  presses  to  bursting  the  sides  of  the 
generous  granaries.  What,  then,  so  meet,  as  that 
the  skies  should  bend  over  all  with  sunnier  smiles, 
and  the  forests  array  themselves  in  the  most  gor- 
geous clothing.  How  could  the  great  pageant  be 
so  becomingly  kept  up,  as  by  these  matchless  color- 
ings and  unrivaled  combinations. 

An  hour  of  such  contemplations,  is  not  all 

an  hour  of  dreams.  It  is  not  altogether  profitless. 
It  melts  down,  in  the  crucible  of  reflection,  all  unhal- 


118  CAP  SHEAF. 

lowed  aspirations,  and  refines  the  fine  gold  of  one's 
heart  still  many  times  more.  The  feelings  become 
attuned  to  softer  impulses;  even  as  one  is  lulled 
into  dreams  by  the  musical  fall  of  waters,  or  the 
sweet  blowing  of  some  drowsy  wind. 


KUTH. 

IT  had  cost  her  much  pain  and  many  struggles, 
but  Ruth  at  length  came  in  sight  of  the  old 
beech-tree  beneath  which  "William  Britton  had  pro- 
mised for  the  last  time  to  meet  her. 

She  approached  it  with  a  sorrowful  heart.  Tears 
were  swimming  in  her  blue  eyes,  and  when  through 
their  mist  she  dimly  saw  the  well-known  tree, 
around  which  were  gathered  such  and  so  many 
memories,  they  broke  from  her  lids  and  dropped  on 
the  ground  at  her  feet. 

He  was  not  yet  there,  and  she  had  half  a  mind 
to  go  back  again  ;  she  was  so  undecided,  and  her 
heart  was  so  full  of  swelling  grief.  Hardly  know- 
ing why,  however,  she  pushed  out  to  the  foot  of 
the  tree,  and  seated  herself  upon  one  of  its  gnarled 
and  twisted  roots. 

Her  bonnet  was  in  her  hand ;  and  the 

wealth  of  her  auburn  hair  showered  in  golden 
curls  over  her  neck  and  shoulders,  while  the  rays 
of  the  setting  sun  braided  up  her  unbound  locks  in 


120  CAP  SHEAF. 

bands  of  matchless  beauty.  A  strange  glory  seem- 
ed te  have  at  that  moment  settled  upon  her  head ; 
while  her  large  and  lustrous  eyes  beamed  with  a 
light  that  could  not  have  been  altogether  earthly. 

She  strained  her  gaze,  now  up  and  now  down 
the  road,  but  as  yet  descried  no  one  approaching. 
It  was  a  lovely  spot>  and  intruder's  feet  rarely 
crushed  the  grass-blades  there.  At  this  sunset 
hour,  too,  the  influences  about  it  were  all  sombre 
and  sad.  And  they  stole  into  the  heart  of  the 
gentle  Ruth  like  long  shadows,  not  altogether  dark, 
yet  but  triflingly  illumined  by  any  brightness  from 
her  own  thoughts.  They  drew  her  dreaming  eyes 
magnetically  to  the  earth, — and  she  began  to  run 
over  in  her  mind  the  olden  days,  the  golden  clus- 
ters of  hopes,  the  generous  promises,  and  the 
boundless  future.  All  were  full  of  happiness,  and 
love,  and  truth. 

A  rustling  in  the  thicket  aroused  her  from 

her  reverie.  She  looked  up,  and  saw  her  lover 
standing  bentie  her. 

At  first  she  could  scarcely  speak,  for  her  deep 
emotion.  She  was  looking  in  the  face  of  him  who 
was  to  her  dearer  than  all  others,  for  the  last  time 
in  many  years.  There  would  be  no  one  to  whom 
she  might  carry  all  her  secret  thoughts,  when  he 
was  gone.  All  sympathies  would  become  stone, 
when  his  warm  sympathies  were  withdrawn  from 


RUTH.  121 

her. — Poor  "Ruth !  Little  the  wonder  that  her  feel- 
ings well  nigh  overwhelmed  her. 

William  Britton  was  only  a  poor  boy,  the  son  of  a 
hard  and  unfeeling  father.  Farm-work  he  thought 
he  had  had  quite  enough  of.  On  the  airy  wings 
of  his  dreams  he  was  borne  upward  to  higher 
points,  until  he  almost  touched  the  gilded  pinnacles 
his  ainbition  had  erected.  He  was  .thoroughly  tired 
of  what  he  thought  a  life  of  drudgerjr.  His  father 
took  no  pains  to  interest  him  in  his  labors,  and 
never  dreamed  of  the  necessity  or  policy  of  holding 
out  promises.  He  said  that  the  law  allowed  him 
his  son's  labor  until  he  should  have  got  beyond  his 
minority  ;  and  then  he  was  obliged  to  have  no 
more  to  do  with  him. — And  this  is  the  reasoning, — 
cold  and  heartless  as  it  is, — of  many  and  many  a 
father  the  world  over. 

The  youth  stood  beneath  the  twisted  old 

beech-tree,  a  runaway!  His  small  bundle  of  clothes 
was  slung  upon  a  stick  across  his  shoulder,  and  he 
had  fully  equipped  himself  for  his  journey.  He 
wore  a  pair  of  stout  boots  upon  his  feet,  that  look- 
ed as  if  they  must  outlast  even  the  stern  stuff  of 
which  his  heart,  at  that  moment,  seemed  made. 
Yet  there  was  a  hesitation  in  his  manner,  and  a 
want  of  decisiveness  in  his  words,  that  betrayed  at 
once,  when  he  attempted  to  speak,  the  trouble  that 
was  gathering  thickly  about  his  heart.  '  He  wanted 

6 


122  CAP  SHEAF. 

to  appear  only  manly  ;  and  it  was  beyond  the 
strength  of  his  resolution  to  act  out  the  deceit. 
His  eyes  fell  to  the  ground ;  his  lips  quivered ;  he 
sat  down  beside  Euth,  and  took  her  hand  in  his  own. 

It  was  several  moments  before  either  of  them 
could  speak.  Choking  sensations  obstructed  their 
utterance.  And  when  at  length  words  came,  they 
were  spoken  in  low  and  melancholy  tones,  keeping 
a  strange  and  musical  harmony  with  the  lull  of  the 
evening  air,  yet  echoing  in  the  heart-chambers  of 
each  as  loudly  as  if  spoken  by  a  thousand  tongues. 

"Ruth,"  said  the  young  boy,  still  holding  her 
hand  between  his  own,  "  I  shall  come  back  again." 

"  But  it  will  be  a  great  while  first,"  replied  the 
artless  girl.  "  The  summer  will  all  be  gone ;  and 
the  winter  will  come  and  go,  too ;  and  the  spring- 
flowers  will  bloom  on  the  hill-sides,  and  in  the 
woods,  and  down  the  lanes;  and  another  summer 
will  come  again,1 — and  another, — and  how  many, 
many  more!  Oh,  "William, — can  I  wait  so  long?" 

The  tender  earnestness  of  the  speech  had  nearly 
prevented  his  replying  at  all.  But  he  rallied 
himself  with  a  strong  effort,  and  said  ^>  her : — 

"My  dear  Euth,  can  you  not  wait  but  a  few 
years,  when  you  know  they  will  bring  you  so 
much  more  happiness  in  the  end  ?  Will  you  not 
suffer  this  separation  for  such  a  length  of  time,  if 
by  the  means  we  shall  both  be  the  happier  ?" 


RUTH.  123 

He  watched  her  countenance,  to  see  what  effect 
his  words  might  have  upon  her.  She  answered 
him  only  after  much  difficulty,  while  the  glistening 
tears  swam  in  her  eyes  : — 

"  My  heart  is  strong.     It  will  bear  much." 

And  at  this  point  she  broke  forth  in  convulsive 
sobs,  that  prevented  her  uttering  another  syllable. 

William  wound  his  arm  gently  about  her  waist, 
and  drawing  her  still  nearer  to  himself,  kissed  her 
pale  forehead, — how  pale,  and  cold !  It  startled 
him. 

He  gazed  again  into  her  eyes,  but  said  not  a 
word.  Their  eyes  met  once  more. 

"  It  is  asking  too  much  !"  exclaimed  he.  "  Euth, 
— Ruth,  I  will  not  go  !  I  will  stay !  I  will  stay 
to  make  you  always  happy  !" 

"No — no,"  replied  Ruth,  her  resolution  coming 
opportunely  to  her  aid.  "  Go  ; — go,  and  be  what 
you  have  determined  to  be.  Do  what  your  heart 
has  settled  upon.  Go,  and  be  happy." 

"And  shall  you  be  happy,  too,  Ruth?" 

"  Too  happy, — too  happy,  if  I  only  know  that 
you  succeed  in  all  your  wishes,"  replied  the  devoted 
girl. 

He  pressed  her  to  his  heart  again, — that  youthful 
heart  beating  so  tumultuously ! 

"  In  five  years,"  said  he,  as  he  rose  to  his  feet 
and  gazed  sorrowfully  about  him.  "It  costs  me 


124  CAP  SHEAF. 

a  trial,  Ruth;  and  it  costs  you  a  sorer  one;  but 
my  hopes  are  bright  enough  to  throw  light  upon 
my  path.  It  would  all  be  dark  without  them. 
And  I  have  your  prayers,  too." 

"  All  of  them,"  said  she. 

He  pressed  his  lips  to  her  forehead  again.  Once 
more  he  took  her  by  the  hand,  and  pressed  it  in  a 
silent  farewell.  He  could  not  trust  himself  to 
words. 

He  felt  something  thrust  into  his  hand,  but 
dared  not  look  to  see  what  it  was.  His  heart  was 
too  full. 

Casting  a  long  and  tender  glance  backward  at 
the  bride  of  his  young  heart,  his  own  eyes  already 
filled  with  blinding  tears, — William  Britton  began 
in  silence  and  sorrow  his  journey  through  the 
world  ;  the  same  journey,  on  which  so  many  sink 
down,  faint,  and  weary,  and  worn,  by  the  way- 
side ;  and  so  many  more  meet  only  disappointments 
enough  to  make  them  wish  from  their  hearts  they 
had  never  started.  Truly, — it  must  be  a  stout 
heart  that  presses  through  all  the  trials,  and  finds 
a  victory  to  recompense  it  at  the  end. 

Ruth  gazed  after  him  anxiously  and  pray- 
erfully, till  the  dense  shadows  received  him  to  their 
embrace  in  the  distance;  and  long  after  he  had 
finally  disappeared,  her  eyes  were  fixed  on  the 
spot  where  she  last  saw  his  departing  form. 


RUTH.  125 

Then  turning  her  head  about  again,  she  bent 
down  beneath  the  great  weight  of  her  grief,  and 
suffered  her  turbulent  sorrow  to  swell  and  burst  in 
a  rain  of  hot  tears. 

When  this  inward  tempest  had  in  a  degree  sub- 
sided, she  felt  more  calm ;  and  she  arose  from  her 
seat,  forgetful  that  the  dusky  shadows  were  already 
dancing  and  grouping  hither  and  thither  upon  the 
old  road,  and  slowly  pursued  her  way  home  again. 

All  that  night,  she  lay  tossing  upon  her 

bed.  She  had  a  secret  in  her  heart,  which  she 
dreaded  equally  to  keep  and  to  reveal.  Her  sister 
Mary  frequently  asked  her  what  caused  her  so 
much  uneasiness,  and  why  she  slept  so  little,  and 
tossed  so  much ;  but  the  replies  of  the  sad  girl 
were  only  subterfuges,  beneath  which  her  lonely 
heart  hoped  to  conceal  all  its  bitter  feelings. 

She  told  Mary  that  the  night  was  warm;  and 
the  moon  was '  bright ;  and  that  when  the  wind- 
gusts  lifted  the  boughs  of  the  old  elm  before  the 
window,  she  could  see  the  white  headstones  that 
glimmered  through  the  green  of  the  distant  church- 
yard. Mary  tried  to  laugh  these  sombre  fancies 
out  of  her  sister's  brain  ;  but  even  so  gay  a  crea- 
ture as  she  was  unequal  to  the  task. 

Ruth  only  murmured  the  more  to  herself,  as  if 
in  a  troubled  dream. 


126  CAP  SHEAF. 

"  But  you  see  the  headstones  every  night,  when 
the  moon  shines,  do  you  not  ?"  rallied  her  sister. 

"Yes;  but  how  much  tvhiter  they  look  now," 
returned  Ruth. 

"  What  should  make  them  so,  pray  ?"  persisted 
Mary,  determined  to  get  fairly  on  the  track  of  these 
phantoms,  and  chase  them  away  altogether. 

"  It  should  be  the  moon ;  but  it  is  not.  I  do 
not  know  what  it  is.  But  how  white, — how  very 
white !" 

Mary  at  length  indulged  her  sister  in  suffering 
her  to  pursue  what  she  called  her  odd  fancies,  and 
herself  fell  asleep.  But  sleep  did  not  come  near 
the  pillow  of  Ruth.  She  watched,  till  the  gray 
streaks  streamed  up  over  the  eastern  sky ;  and  her 
pillow  was  wet  with  tears.  The  round  red  sun 
glared  like  a  ball  of  fire  through  the  morning  mist, 
and  fell  upon  the  wall  of  her  room. 

Mary  was  up  early,  and  her  voice  was  to  be 
heard  everywhere  about  the  house.  She  seemed 
to  Ruth  even  gayer  than  usual  on  that  morning ; 
but  it  must  have  been  because  of  the  contrast  with 
the  deep  depression  of  her  own  spirits  at  that  sad 
time.  Every  ringing  laugh  that  fell  on  the  ears  of 
Ruth,  made  her,  if  possible,  still  more  sad. 

Days  and  weeks  wore  slowly  away.  The  sud- 
den disappearance  of  the  young  man  from  the  vil- 
lage, was  the  topic  of  talk  for  many  a  week ;  but  even 


RUTH.  127 

that  at  length  gave  place  to  others  equally  interest- 
ing, and  still  more  new.  No  one,  save  only  Rath, 
knew  why  or  whither  he  had  gone.  Perhaps  the  se- 
cret at  times  made  her  heart  ache,  but  still  she  kept  it. 

Never  did  the  days  lag  for  her  more  slowly. 
How  many  times  she  wished  she  could  set  the  old 
hall-clock  forward, — far  forward, — days,  weeks, 
months,  years  !  And  then  a  sudden  sense  of  the 
great  length  of  time  that  must  yet  elapse  before 
she  should  see  William,  rushed  over  her  again ; 
and  she  thought  she  could  not  wait  so  long.  She 
felt  as  if  upon  seeing  him  immediately,  depended 
not  only  her  happiness,  but  her  very  life  itself. 

It  was  a  great  grief,  and  the  harder  to  bear  be- 
cause it  must  be  borne  in  silence.  Under  such 
griefs  some  hearts  cannot  live. 

And  as  Ruth,  day  by  day  and  week  by  week, 
grew  still  more  anxious,  and  became  still  more  sad- 
dened at  heart, — and  as  her  countenance  overspread 
with  a  still  more  frightful  pallor,  and  her  voice  be- 
came even  more  melancholy  and  low, — there  were 
some  who  thought  she  could  not  be  wholly  well ; 
and  others  who  did  not  heed  these  alarming  changes 
at  all, — the  more  alarming,  because  so  insidious; 
and  others  still,  who  had  no  sympathy  whatever 
for  illy  .-concealed  sorrow ;  and  thought  she  was  a 
remarkably  indolent  girl,  who  would  live  long 
enough  to  know  what  the  need  of  labor  was.  And 


128  CAP  SHEAF. 

as  for  Euth  herself,  she  bore  all  these  mocking 
taunts,  and  mean  insinuations,  and  cruel  looks,  as 
best  she  could ;  even  the  changed  manner  of  her 
parents  became  at  length  quite  natural  to  her,  and 
she  thought,  or  tried  to  think,  they  must  be  right 
in  thus  abandoning  her  to  the  consuming  canker 
of  her  secret  sorrow. 

"Weeks  and  months  passed ;  but  no  tidings 

from  her  lover.  She  dreamed — and  prayed — and 
hoped ;  and  in  this  little  circuit  her  hours  run  their 
monotonous  round.  Quite  different  from  her  was 
Mary.  She  was  full  of  vivacity,  and  an  unaffected 
gayety  hung,  like  a  charm,  about  her  spirits;  Euth 
was  quiet,  and  thoughtful,  and  fearfully  calm.  Her 
heart  was  unmoved  by  the  trifling  objects  that  so 
easily  excited  Mary  to  laughter  or  passion.  Yet 
for  all  this,  it  was  much  richer  in  deep  feeling  than 
Mary's.  She  appeared  calm,  and  .always  self-pos- 
sessed; but  beneath  the  glassiness  of  that  calm 
exterior  the  wildest  tempests  of  feeling  were  often- 
times breaking. 

And  while  time  was  thus  silently  slipping  away, 
unnoticed  by  all  save  Euth,  and  after  the  very 
name  of  "William  Britton  had  almost  been  forgotten 
by  the  good  people  the  country  round,  a  strange 
gentleman  chanced  to  pass  a  portion  of  a  summer 
season  in  the  village.  He  had  come  there  to  recruit 
his  worn-down  energies.  Coming  from  a  distant 


RUTH.  129 

city,  he  was  of  course  naturally  delighted  with  the 
freshness  and  beauty  of  the  retreat  he  had  chosen. 

In  respect  of  his  person,  he  was  tall,  of  good 
figure,  manly  looking,  and  attractive.  With  man- 
ners that  were  noticeable  for  their  ease  and  polish, 
his  conversation  likewise  betrayed  a  mind  of  no 
mean  degree  of  cultivation.  He  was  reputed,  in 
addition,  to  be  possessed  of  considerable  wealth ; 
and  that  valuable  fact  had  all  the  weight  to  which 
it  was  entitled — I  do  not  say,  any  more — with  the 
maidens  and  mothers  of  the  little  village. 

In  proper  course  of  time  and  events,  he  had  suc- 
ceeded in  pleasing  quite  everybody.  There  was  no 
social  or  family  board,  to  which  he  was  not  heartily 
welcome.  If  a  pic-nic  was  to  be  held  in  the  grove, 
his  name  was  the  one  first  thought  of  in  the  sched- 
ule of  invitations.  All  convivial  gatherings  would 
have  been  tedious  indeed,  without  him.  So  it  was 
silently  voted  by  all.  His  flow  of  humor  was  in- 
exhaustible. To  every  one  he  studiously  made 
himself  agreeable.  He  seemed  informed  on  all 
topics  of  immediate  interest,  and  commanded  no 
less  the  respect,  than  the  admiration  of  the  town. 
He  certainly  could  not  help  quietly  thinking  that 
the  village  never  before  contained  so  important  a 
character  as  he. 

He  had  seen  Mary,  and  from  the  first  was  pleased 
with  her.     Her  vivacity,   appearing  so  natural, 
6* 


130  CAP  SHEAF. 

charmed  him.  She  betrayed  him  into  unexpected 
confessions,  and  strangely  entangled  his  heart  with 
feelings  of  whose  nature  he  had  before  known 
nothing.  Yet  Mary  was  neither  artful  nor  design- 
ing ;  unless  the  most  artless  simplicity  be  such ; 
and  of  this  she  was  possessed  of  quite  her  share. 
In  truth,  the  very  absence  of  all  art  was,  with  her, 
the  highest  degree  of  art.  So  it  is  in  o'ther  mat- 
ters, as  well  as  in  manners. 

"While  Mary  was  thus  engaged  in  securing  the 
attentions  of  the  stranger  chiefly  to  herself,  Kuth 
was  reserved,  and  kept  out  of  the  way  altogether. 
Perhaps  her  native  modesty,  now  exaggerated  to 
sensitiveness,  drew  her  back  from  view ;  perhaps  it 
was  her  sad  thoughts  for  her  long-absent  lover  ;  or 
it  may  have  even  been  from  both  these  causes  com- 
bined. At  all  events,  she  studiously  avoided  the 
stranger's  society,  as,  indeed,  she  had  long  seemed 
to  shun  that  of  every  one  else. 

But  even  all  this  would  not  do.  This  very 
reserve,  in  which  she  had  wrapped  all  her  actions, 
and  even  her  character  itself,  served  to  whet  his 
curiosity  the  more ;  and  out  of  this  excited  curiosity 
sprang  a  living  interest  in  her.  Cost  what  the 
effort  might,  he  determined  to  become  acquainted 
with  Ruth. 

How  this  was  all  finally  accomplished,  I  will  not 
undertake  in  this  place  to  say.  The  petty  delays 


RUTH.  131 

and  perplexing  disappointments  that  environed  his 
way,  were  numerous,  and  as  variously  overcome. 
It  would  be  but  a  repetition  of  what  has  occurred 
a  thousand  times  before,  and  of  no  especial  profit 
or  interest  to  the  reader,  either. 

He  was  taking  a  lonely  walk  in  the  woods 

that  skirted  the  village,  one  fine  afternoon,  toward 
the  sunset  hour,  engaged  intently  upon  the  shifting 
thoughts  that  chased  each  other  across  his  brain. 
Eeaching  at  length  a  shadowed  spot,  scooped  out 
between  two  hills,  he  then  for  the  first  time  espied 
a  female,  seated  beneath  one  of  the  largest  trees. 

He  hesitated  a  moment ;  then,  as  he  saw  at  an- 
other glance  who  the  fair  wood-nymph  was,  he 
pushed  boldly  forward  and  accosted  her. 

"  Good  afternoon,  Miss  Kuth,"  ventured  he. 

She  returned  his  civility  gracefully,  though  she 
could  not  disguise  the  feeling  of  alarm  that  came 
over  her,  as  she  found  she  was  discovered  in  her 
retreat. 

The  gentleman  began  a  lively  and  animated  con- 
versation with  her ;  and  at  last  succeeded  so  far  in 
engaging  her,  as  to  venture  to  sit  at  her  feet  upon 
the  moss-patch  beneath  the  tree.  She  appeared  to 
oppose  no  wish  of  hers  to  it,  and  the  stranger's 
heart  took  courage. 

They  sat  there  and  talked,  till  the^yellow  sun 
shot  its  long  arrows  of  gold  through  all  the  tree- 


CAP  SHEAF. 

tops.  The  sky  in  the  west  grew  red, — then  purple, 
— then  faintly  orange ; — and  thus,  one  by  one,  the 
early  evening  tints  were  all  folded  in  the  dusky 
wings  of  the  crowding  shadows. 

When  they  rose  to  their  feet  again  to  return 

to  the  village,  the  heart  of  the  stranger  had  been 
freely  and  fully  given  to  Euth.  He  had  only  asked 
for  her  love  in  return. 

Did  she  give  it  ?  Had  she  so  soon,  then,  forgot- 
ten her  old  lover, — the  poor  boy,  William  Britton? 

The  countenance  of  the  stranger,  as  both  walked 
slowly  homeward  side  by  side,  best  answered  for 
Euth.  It  was  overcast  with  an  expression  of  deep 
anxiety ;  perhaps  of  disappointment.  In  any  event, 
disappointment  was  in  his  heart. 

No — no.  Euth  was  true  to  the  instincts  of 

her  first  abiding  love ! 

But  her  parents  came  to  hear  of  her  decision, 
and  took  the  earliest  opportunity  to  upbraid  her 
with  her  folly, — for  such  they  thought  it  was.  Yet 
they  knew  nothing  of  the  strong  passion  that  slept, 
like  a  hidden  fire,  in  her  heart, — the  deep  and 
strong  love  for  the  runaway.  They  could  not  help 
wondering  why  the  fancy  of  the  stranger,  should 
settle  upon  so  reserved  and  silent  a  girl  as  Euth, 
and  pass  by  such  an  impersonation  of  vivacious 
beauty  as  Mary.  But  the  wonder  was  all  they  got 
for  their  trouble.  In  reading  the  secret  of  a  heart, 


RUTH.  133 

their  eyes  were  not  the  eyes  of  an  infatuated 
lover. 

At  length  the  stranger  took  a  final  leave  of  the 
village,  after  having  again  and  again  renewed  his 
expression  of  attachment  to  Ruth,  and  each  time 
in  vain.  She  was,  by  no  means,  insensible  to  the 
regard  he  professed ;  but,  farther  than  this,  she  suf- 
fered his  words  to  make  no  impression  upon  her. 
None  were  more  moved  by  her  conduct  than  her 
parents.  They  artfully  essayed  to  divert  the  gen- 
tleman's preferences  from  Ruth  to  Mary.  And  at 
last,  they  became  so  much  incensed  at  what  they 
saw  was  inevitable,  that  it  seemed  as  if  they  could 
with  difficulty  endure  even  Ruth's  presence  with 
them.  Their  affection  was  but  one  word  for  sel- 
fishness and  pride. 

And  all  this  Ruth  too  well  knew ;  and  all  the 
time,  her  heart  was  too  full  for  utterance.  To  ex- 
plain, would  but  inflame  her  parents  still  more ;  for 
as  between  the  gentleman  and  the  forgotten  runa- 
way, they  would  instantly  have  declared  in  favor 
of  the  former. 

And  when,  too,  Ruth  began  to  think  the  whole 
matter  calmly  over  again,  and  when  she  reflected 
that  it  was  already  a  long,  long  time  since  she  had 
heard  from  William,  and  that  his  feelings  might 
undergo  a  change  ere  she  should  hear  from  him 
again, — she  trembled  in  view  of  the  fearful  chances 


134  CAP  SHEAF. 

that  might  yet  overtake  her ;  yet  there  was  a  secret 
power  in  her  trustful  heart,  that  made  her  strong. 
She  did  not  falter :  she  could  not  hesitate,  so  long 
as  that  power  controlled  her. 

After  more  sadness,  more  tears,  more  persecu- 
tion,— and  after  many  and  many  a  silent  and  lonely 
tryste  beneath  the  old  beech-tree,  where  she  had 
spoken  the  syllables  of  farewell  to  her  long-estrang- 
ed lover, — her  heart  temporarily  threw  off  its  great 
weight  of  sorrow,  and  the  olden  smiles  shone  out 
anew  upon  her  face. 

William  Britton  had  returned ! 

His  entrance  into  the  village  was  the  occasion  of 
much  surprise,  and  more  remark.  "When  Kuth 
first  heard  he  had  come,  her  strength  failed  her, 
and  she  felt  as  if  she  must  faint.  She  withdrew  to 
her  little  chamber,  and  there  she  only  suffered  her- 
self to  wonder  if  he  looked  as  he  did  when  the 
evening  shadows  took  him  out  of  her  sight.  She 
tried  timidly  to  settle  it  in  her  mind,  if  he  was  yet 
as  devoted  to  her  as  he  promised  ever  to  be.  And 
she  kept  wondering,  and  questioning  herself,  and 
fearing,  until  her  mind  was  in  almost  as  unquiet  a 
state  as  if  she  had  heard  that  he  was  never  to  return 
again. 

-  They  met  once  more ;  but  it  was  not  until 
the  following  day  1     The  delay  was  ominous. 

The   young  boy  had    become    a    man.    Long 


RUTH.  135 

absence  had  manifestly  improved  his  appearance, 
and  his  tastes  had  undergone  a  good  degree  of  cul- 
tivation. 

He  found  both  Euth  and  Mary-  in  their  little 
parlor  together.  The  meeting  was  cordial  and  un- 
affected, lie  was  heartily  glad  to  see  them  both 
again,  and  told  them  so  with  all  the  grace  of  a  fin- 
ished man  of  the  world. 

To  Ruth  he  said  nothing  more  than  to  Mary. 
Had  he  forgotten,  then,  all  his  old  affection  ?  "Was 
his  heart  basely  treacherous  even  to  itself?  — — 

Day  followed  upon  day.   Not  so  much  now 

was  it  the  company  of  Ruth  that  he  sought,  as  that 
of  Mary.  He  walked  with  her  at  times  down  the 
old  road  ;  and  into  the  grove  ;  and  even  sat  down 
beside  her  under  the  same  beech-tree, — its  roots 
still  writhed  and  twisted  together, — where  he  had 
many  a  time  told  of  his  passionate  love  for  Ruth ! 

He  told  Mary,  in  a  very  flippant  way,  how  very 
tame  he  thought  Ruth  had  grown  ;  that  she  seemed 
to  have  lost  all  her  former  vivacity ;  and  that  he 
only  wished  she  had  the  life  of  some  of  the  fine 
ladies  he  happened  to  know. 

Poor  Ruth  !     Poor — poor  Ruth  ! — And  all 

this  time,  her  heart  was  yearning  with  its  whole 
feeble  strength  for  the  recompense  of  the  bound- 
less wealth  it  had  so  freely  bestowed  1 
• 


136  CAP  SHEAF. 

He  saw  Ruth  daily ;  but  never  a  word  from  him 
of  the  future ; — nothing  even  of  the  past. 

It  was  through  Mary  that  Euth  at  length  heard 
of  his  intention  to  leave  the  village  again  in  a  few 
days.  She  silently  prayed  God  for  more  strength 
to  endure.  And  her  breath  grew  short  and  quick ; 
and  her  heart  beat  wildly  against  her  boddice ;  and 
her  pulses  fluttered, — and  sunk  quite  away, — and 
fluttered  again. 

The  day  of  departure  came.  William  arrived 
at  the  house  of  the  sisters,  at  almost  the  last  half- 
hour  left  him.  He  took  his  leave  of  both  of  them 
at  once,  and  gave  a  little  packet  into  the  hand  of 
Ruth  as  he  turned  away. 

It  was  the  tokens  of  affectionate  consolation 

she  pressed  on  him,  when  he  set  forth  in  sorrow 
upon  the  world  from  beneath  the  old  beech-tree! — 

Her  eyes  were  bent  with  a  look  of  deeply  anx- 
ious inquiry  upon  his ;  but  not  so  much  as  the  look 
did  he  return.  Perhaps  ^e  could  not.  Perhaps 
his  thoughts  smote  him  full  fearfully,  even  at  that 
late  moment. 

He  passed  off  down  the  winding  road. 

Ruth  saw  no  more.  Her  eyes  failed  her,  but  they 
were  not  blinded  with  tears.  She  could  not  weep. 
Tears  would  have  been  such  a  welcome  relief. 

The  days  went  on  ;  and  the  crescent  moons 

came  anew,  and  faded  again  in  the  sky. 


RUTH.  137 

The  tints  of  Autumn  were  hanging  upon  the 
dense  foliage,  and  the  forests  were  clad  in  huge 
cloths  of  purple  and  gold. 

Again  the  full,  round  harvest-moon  hung,  like  a 
globe  of  silver,  in  the  eastern  sky.  The  chill 
wind-gusts  lifted  the  leaves  of  the  old  elms  once 
more ;  and  the  still  moon  glistened  on  the  head- 
stone of  another  grave ! 

The  broken  heart  had  done  beating.  Euth, 

— sweet  and  gentle  Euth, — had  wept  herself  to 
sleep  ;  and  a  cloud  of  sorrow  seemed  resting  con- 
tinually upon  her  newly-heaped  grave. 


THE   LITTLE    KAZOK-MAN. 

I  HAPPENED  to  get  weather-bound  one  day, 
in  journeying  through  a  particular  section  in 
New  England,  and  became  unexpectedly  obliged 
to  console  myself  with  whatever  trifling  diversions 
might  offer  themselves  within  the  walls  of  a  little 
snuggery  of  a  country  Inn. 

It  was  no  very  inviting  place,  outwardly,  to  be 
sure ;  yet  there  was  such  an  air  of  comfort  within, 
that  I  half  thanked  the  ill-fortune,  already,  that  had 
thus  walled  me  in  there. 

The  diminutive  bar-room  was  not  crowded  with 
lazy  hangers-on ;  and  no  riotous  babble  from  un- 
duly-excited tongues  drowned  my  senses  with  its 
din.  This,  I  must  say,  I  liked  hugely. 

I  had  a  fire — an  open  fire — kindled  in  my  apart- 
ment ;  and,  wheeling  up  a  table  and  an  all-embra- 
cing easy  chair  before  it,  I  resolved  to  make  the 
hours  pass  as  pleasantly  as  they  would.  There 
was  no  lack  of  ink,  pens  and  paper  in  the  house ; 
and  I  carried  a  few  choice  and  well-thumbed  books 


THE  LITTLE  RAZOR-MAN.  189 

in  my  portmanteau.  And  between  the  one  thing 
and  the  other, — between  a  brief  time  of  labor  and 
an  afterlapse  of  reverie, — I  managed  to  go  along 
with  the  ringer  on  the  dial,  until  mid-afternoon. 

Then  I  confess  to  a  sense  of  oncoming  weariness. 
I  pushed  back  my  chair — yawned — threw  down 
my  book — looked  discontentedly  about  the  room — 
and  finally  resolved  to  go  down  stairs. 

I  entered  the  snug  little  bar-room.  There  was 
no  person  there  save  one  small  man.  He  was 
busily  engaged  about  stropping  some  razors,  and 
bowed  very  respectfully  to  me  as  I  went  in.  He 
was  such  a  peculiarity  in  himself,  that  I  am  sure  I 
shall  be  pardoned  for  briefly  describing  him. 

His  hair  was  a  whitish  brown,  and  drawn  care- 
fully forward  from  his  occiput.  It  did  not  alto- 
gether suffice  to  conceal  the  broadly  bald  spot  on 
his  crown,  but  reached  onward  to  his  wrinkled 
temples,  where  it  made  an  only  half-successful  effort 
to  work  itself  into  a  pair  of  loose  curls. 

His  forehead  was  full ;  his  eye  tolerably  quick 
and  bright ;  his  nose  decidedly  aquiline  ;  his  chin 
prominent — perhaps  the  more  so  from  the  loss  of 
his  teeth  ;  and  his  whole  head  all  the  time  in  active 
motion. 

He  wore  no  dickey  about  his  neck, — only  a 
white  cravat,  which  seemed  drawn  round  with  un- 
necessary, if  not  absolutely  unsafe  tension.  A  rusty 


140  CAP  SHEAF. 

little  frock-coat  hung  loosely  from  his  shoulders, — 
most  thoroughly  worn,  yet  brushed  with  nice  exact- 
ness and  care.  His  vest  buttoned  high  ;  his  panta- 
loons shone  almost  like  silk;  and  his  feet  were 
thrust  into  a  pair  of  shoes,  which  he  appeared  to 
keep  polished  with  all  possible  sedulousness. 

Thus  far  respecting  his  personal  appearance. 

As  I  took  my  seat  before  the  fire,  I  still  kept  my 
eyes  quite  unconsciously  fixed  upon  him.  There 
seemed  to  be  something  mysterious  about  him, 
which,  though  perhaps  of  little  importance  of  itself, 
was  still  a  mystery.  He  went  on  stropping  his 
razor,  however,  and  his  whole  t>ody  moved  in  har- 
mony with  his  occupation. 

"An  unpleasant  day,  sir,"  exclaimed  he,  stop- 
ping to  pluck  a  few  hairs  from  his  head,  that  could 
ill  spare  even  one,  and  drawing  the  razor's  edge 
across  them. 

"  Very,"  I  assented. 

I  could  not  help  wondering,  just  at  that  juncture, 
whether  he  had  lost  all  his  hair  in  the  way  of  his 
profession. 

A  silence  ensued.  It  was  broken,  however,  not 
long  after,  by  his  asking  me  if  I  had  a  razor  that 
needed  "  setting."  This  was,  I  think,  the  profes- 
sional term. 

Glad  to  get  an  opportunity  to  draw  the  little 
into  the  least  betrayal  of  the  secret  that 


THE   LITTLE    RAZOR- MAN.  141 

seemed  to  me  to  clothe  his  very  person,  I  instantly 
bethought  myself  that  I  had  a  pair  of  them  in  my 
portmanteau,  and  ran  to  get  them.  It  was  not 
long  before  he  was  hard  to  work  over  them. 

As  his  body  shook,  his  tongue  began  to  run.  I 
know  not  if  he  made  it  a  point  to  be  always  thus 
communicative  with  his  patrons,  but  certain  it  is, 
he  opened  a  conversation  with  me,  of  whose  termi- 
nation I  could  have  no  conception  whatever.  He 
was  quite  inquisitive  at  the  first ;  but  finding  that  I 
was  little  disposed  to  act  in  the  capacity  of  respond- 
ing-master,  he  had  the  sagacity  to  drop  that  very 
soon,  and  entered  upon  a  field  of  pure  narration, — 
just  what  I  most  desired.  To  be  sure,  there  was 
much  soliloquy  mixed  in  with  it ;  but  that  only 
served  to  spice  the  whole  more  to  my  hungered 
taste. 

A  single  judicious  question  or  two  put  him  at 
once  on  the  track  I  wished  ;  and  his  tongue  ran  on 
with  incredible  ease  and  swiftness.  ^ 

"  Thirty-three  years  ago,  this  very  day,"  said  he, 
"I  was  married!" 

He  stared  blankly  at  me  for  a  moment,  on  the 
back  of  this  announcement,  as  if  to  see  how  I  was 
impressed  with  the  deliberateness  of  the  state- 
ment. 

"I  was  at  that  time  much  better  off  in  prospect 
than  I  am  now,  as  you  will  not  find  it  difficult  to 


142  CAP  SHEAF. 

r 

believe,  sir.      I  was  in  a  good  business,  and  my 
chances  in  life  every  day  grew  better. 

"There  had  long  been  an  attachment  between 
my  wife  and  myself,  and  we  had  always  kept  it  a 
secret  from  her  father.  She  was  his  only  remain- 
ing child,  and  in  truth,  his  only  consolation ;  for 
his  wife  had  been  many  years  dead  at  that  time. 
He  loved  this  child  as  no  father  ever  loved  another. 

"  At  length  I  resolved  to  call  on  the  old  gentle- 
man, and,  in  as  few  words  as  possible,  inform  him. 
of  the  attachment  I  had  for  his  daughter.  I  did 
so.  He  received  me  with  an  excessive  show  of 
dignity  and  pride,"  —  here  the  little  man's  eye 
kindled,  and  his  hand  stopped  in  its  quick  motion 
— "and  did  not  even  ask  me  to  be  seated.  So  I 
stood  before  him ;  and  candidly  told  him  how  I 
loved  his  daughter — his  only  child — and  that  I 
wished  his  permission  to  marry  her. 

"  You  never  saw  such  rage  in  all  your  life,  sir ! 
He  rose  from  his  chair,  and  hastily  advanced  to  me. 
I  thought  he  really  foamed  at  the  mouth. 

"  '  Leave  my  presence,  villain !  Leave  my  pre- 
sence, dog !  and  never  pollute  its  atmosphere  again  I 
— never  dare  to  speak  to  me  again,  either  on  this 
or  any  other  subject !'  ordered  he,  clenching  his 
fist,  and  offering  to  thrust  it  at  me. 
"My  temper  was  quick, — it  is  apt  to  be,  even  now, 
sir, — but  I  kept  it  down.  The  temptation  was 


THE  LITTLE   EAZOR-MAN.  143 

strong,  but  I  came   off  conqueror   that  time.     I 
gnashed  my  teeth  together,  and  left  him  at  once. 

"The  result  of  this  interview  was  made  known  to 
his  daughter,  at  as  early  a  moment  as  it  could  be 
done.  Her  resolution  was  taken  the  instant  I  made 
the  proposition  to  her." 

"The  proposition  to  do  what?"  interrupted  I. 

"To  run  away — to  elope!"  replied  he. 

"  Early  one  morning, — and  a  cloudy  morning  it 
was  too, — we  were  many  a  mile  away  from  her 
proud  father,  on  the  road  to  a  magistrate.  Before 
breakfast-time  we  were  man  and  wife ;  and  a  hap- 
pier pair  of  people  you  never  did  see  !" 

I  assured  him  I  did  not  doubt  it  in  the  least. 

"  The  end  of  it  was,  her  father  was  so  angry  at 
the  step  she  had  taken,  that  he  disinherited  her  at 
once,  married  again,  and  at  his  death,  which  hap- 
pened several  years  after,  bequeathed  the  whole  of 
his  property  to  his  second  wife  and  her  children 
by  a  former  husband ! 

"  We  left  those  parts  at  once.  I  knew  that  was 
not  the  place  for  me  to  succeed  according  to  my 
heart's  desire.  I  resolved  to  move  into  a  distant 
part  of  the  country,  and  after  many  years  return 
home  again,  a  rich  man.  I  thought  that  was  the 
best  revenge  I  could  have  on  him. 

"Years  rolled  on.  Our  union  was  made  still 
more  blessed  by  the  birth  of  a  child — a  girl.  But 


144  CAP  SHEAF. 

sorrow  trode  close  on  at  the  heels  of  joy,  for  my 
wife  herself  died  in  less  than  a  twelvemonth  after- 
wards, and  only  my  babe  was  left  me  !  Thus  were 
all  my  hopes  dashed  to  the  earth  ! 

"  The  child  grew  up.  The  years  seemed  to  have 
wings,  so  swiftly  did  they  fly  away.  The  child 
became  a  blooming,  beautiful  girl. 

"  I  followed  my  calling  with  steadfastness  and 
industry.  In  time  I  sent  her  away  to  school, 
determined  to  give  her  every  opportunity  of  im- 
provement that  was  in  my  power.  She  grew  as 
intelligent  as  she  was  handsome.  Her  cultivated 
manners  well  set  off  the  beauty  of  her  person. 

"  She  returned  home  to  me  again.  You  cannot 
understand,  either,  sir,  what  a  joy  her  presence 
seemed  to  diffuse  about  her.  I  almost  felt  that  her 
dead  mother  was  back  again ! 

"  I  doted  on  my  child  more  and  more.  My  feel- 
ings were  all  bound  up  in  her.  I  was  never  an 
hour  happy  if  she  was  needlessly  out  of  my  sight. 
The  feeling  grew,  I  believe,  to  be  a  half  monoma- 
nia. I  felt  that  two  loves  were  concentrated  upon 
one  being ; — and  she  only  a  child. 

"  I  thought  nothing  of  her  ever  leaving  me.  I 
felt  that  she  could  never  have  the  heart  to  go  and 
leave  me,  when  my  love  for  her  was  so  strong  and 
so  devoted.  I  gave  myself  no  fears  on  that  score, 
but  exerted  myself  to  the  utmost  to  make  her 
happy. 


THE   LITTLE   RAZOR-MAN".  145 

"  I  thought  she  tvas  happy.  I  was  sure  she -was. 
Nothing  more  could  have  been  done  to  make  her  so. 

"  But  the  canker  began  to  eat.  I  felt  the  thorns 
at  last,  as  they  thrust  their  slender  barbs  through 
the  roses." 

"  What  ?"  I  involuntarily  asked. 

I  thought  she  might  have  died  suddenly,  too, 
and  thus  left  the  old  man  quite  desolate. 

"  I  awoke  one  morning  and  went  over  the  house, 
to  find  her  gone,"  said  he. 

"  Gone  /"  exclaimed  I. 

"Yes,  sir,"  he  mournfully  replied.  ^ "  She  had 
eloped  with  a  young  man  who  had  been  acquainted 
with  her  but  a  very  brief  time  ! 

"  I  knew  nothing  what  to  do,  or  where  to  go.  I 
was  distressed  almost  beyond  endurance.  I  felt  as 
if  my  heart  must  break.  I  thought  that  no  an- 
guish could  be  as  keen  as  my  own. 

"  My  spirits  were  depressed.  They  failed  me  at 
last  altogether.  My  business  entirely  run  out ;  and 
from  a  fair  prospect  of  obtaining  a  snug  little  for- 
tune, I  fell  back  into  the  arms  of  poverty.  Ah. 
how  utterly  wretched  I  was  ! 

u  I  was  determined  to  leave  the  scene  of  this  my 
last  distress,  and  ventured  this  way.  I  have  trav- 
eled through  this  section  for  many  and  many  a 
year.  The  business  I  am  now  following,  I  have 
followed  all  this  time.  It  gets  me  a  living,  and 

7 


146  CAP  SHEAF. 

that  is  enough.  More  than  this  would  make  me 
miserable." 

He  paused  a  moment  or  two  from  his  work ; 
laid  down  the  razor  beside  him  ;  brushed  away  a 
tear  from  his  eyes  with  his  faded  coat-sleeve  ;  and 
then  patiently  resumed  his  labor  again. 

How  are  the  follies  of  a  man  visited  upon  him 
in  the  way  of  punishment,  I  mused,  even  during 
his  lifetime  !  There  is  no  escaping  them. 

,}\\<l  at  that  moment  I  h-.-anl  t!i>,-  crack  of  a  wliip 
and  the  loud  rattling  of  wheels.  I  hurried  to  the 
window.  The  ponderous  mail-coach  was  coming 
up  to  the  door.  It  was  blackened  with  passengers. 

They  alighted,  one  by  one,  to  take  refreshment. 
A  ladjr,  with  two  children,  was  among  them,  clad 
in  deepest  mourning..  . 

A  man  suddenly  darted  by  rnc,  nearly  throwing 
me  down  in  the  doorway,  which  I  had  reached.  It 
was  the  little  Razor  Manf^He  sprang  forward  to 
the  lady,  ami  threw  his  arms  about  her  person,  ut- 
tering mingled  erics  of  distress  and  joy. 

He  had  found  his  dawjliter! 

Early  the  next  morning  the  coach  rattled  out  of 
the  yard  again.  One  of  the  passengers  waved  his 
hat  and  hand  to  me  together.  It  was  my  friend — 
the  littJMBozor  Man.  His  widowed  daughter  was 


taking  him  away  to  li«.-r  own  house  and  to  happi- 
ness.    I  felt  relieved. 


THE    LONE    HEABT. 

"AT  EVER  was  there  another  such  rural  paradise 
J_M  as  the  village  of  Willowbend. 

It  was  so  named  from  having  been  laid  out  on 
the  bend,  or  arm,  of  a  sweet  little  river — hardly 
larger  than  a  creek — whereon  grew  in  profusion 
the  native  willow.  The  main  street  of  the  village, 
to  be  sure,  was  not  lined  with  these  trees,  but  the 
river  was  fringed  with  them  as  far  as  the  eye  could 
reach,  either  above  or  below. 

A  vigorous  growth  of  rock-maple  threw  down 
its  broad  and  refreshing  shadows  upon  the  sides 
of  the  street,  and  over  the  door-yards  of  the  houses. 
A  fine  spring  morning  had  settled  upon  the  quiet 
place;  shaking  down  the  ruddy  apple-blossoms 
from  the  trees  in  the  gardens  and  orchards,  and 
showering  musical  notes  from  a  thousand  twitter- 
ing birds  over  the  air.  The  place  was  alive  with 
melody. 

And  the  buzzing  bees  were  swarming  about  the 
peach-trees,  and  the  apple-trees,  making  their  glit- 
tering wings  vibrate  in  the  sunshine,  like  the 


148  CAP  SHEAT. 

twinkling  feet  of  a  sylphide  in  the  blaze  of  a  hun- 
dred foot-lights.  Their  buzzing  sounded  drowsy, 
and  induced  an  insensible  torpor  of  the  soul. 

The  little  river  flashed  in  the  effulgence  of  the 
morning  sun,  rushing  round  the  bend  with  all  the 
joy  of  a  living  creature,  and  leaping  up  near  the 
shores  to  kiss  the  pendulous  boughs  that  draped  its 
margin.  It  looked  like  a  plate  of  clear  crystal,  or 
of  spotless  silver,  set  in  a  frame-work  of  emerald — 
the  latter  wrought  in  the  most  fanciful  style  of  ara- 
besque. In  places,  it  was  clear  and  limpid,  betray- 
ing the  interior  deeps  of  its  richness ;  again,  it  was 
dark  and  shadowed,  as  if  the  magic  of  the  sunlight 
was  yet  needed  to  dispel  the  gloom  that  brooded 
there;  and  still  again,  it  was  most  beautifully 
iridescent,  streaked,  and  mottled.  The  eye,  in 
truth,  might  have  reveled  among  the  pictures  it 
offered  for  a  whole  morning,  and  yet  not  become 
wearied. 

Willowbend  was  a  quiet  place,  as  one  might  at 
once  conclude.  It  was  not  turned  topsy-turvy  each 
day  by  the  whirlwind  rush  of  a  train  of  cars 
through  the  streets ;  nor  were  the  calm  and  usually 
possessed  heads  of  its  inhabitants  crazed  with  daily 
news  of  distant  robberies,  arsons,  thefts,  and  mur- 
ders; sown,  like  thistle -seeds  on  the  wind,  by  the 
still  damp  pages  of  newspapers.  It  was  a  spot 
wholly  after  the  heart  of  nature.  Nay,  it  seemed 


THE  LONE   HEART.  149 

the  very  heart  of  nature  itself.  There  was  nothing 
to  break  in  upon  calm  reflection  ;  nothing  to  shat- 
ter the  sweet  vision  unexpectedly  into  a  hundred 
fragments  ;  nothing  to  feed  fears,  or  to  minister  to 
unnatural  pleasures.  On  first  seeing  its  dreamy 
scenery,  and  breathing  its  balmy  airs,  one  would 
fancy  he  had  caught  a  gleam  of  Elysium. 

Mabel  Adair  had  hired  a  small  room  in  the  vil- 
lage of  Willowbend  for  the  summer  months,  where 
she  proposed  giving  lessons  in  drawing.  It  was  an 
art  in  which  she  was  greatly  skilled,  both  by  study 
and  experience ;  and  she  hoped  at  this  time  to  gain 
an  abundant  subsistence  by  giving  instruction  in  it 
to  others. 

She  was  a  girl  of  perhaps  eighteen  years ;  full 
of  soul,  and  betraying  her  superior  intelligence 
even  in  her  eyes.  Her  personal  appearance  was 
strikingly  beautiful.  A  secret  grace,  inexplicable 
to  others,  always  sat  upon  her  manners,  imparting 
a  charm  to  her  conversation,  and  lighting  up  the 
expression  of  her  features  with  a  radiant  and  irre- 
sistible beauty.  She  had  profuse  brown  hair, 
parted  simply  from  her  forehead,  and  her  ,  eyes 
were  large,  and  of  a  dark  hazel.  A  clear  red-and- 
white  complexion  rendered  her  face  still  more  at- 
tractive, over  which  the  pallor  and  the  rich  carmine 
were  wont  to  chase  each  other  for  a  long  time  togeth- 
er, as  in  play.  Yet  there  was  an  habitual  sadness 


150  CAP  SHEAF. 

upon  her  countenance,  suggesting  thoughts  of  hid- 
den grief  and  unsubdued  sorrow,  that  never  found 
their  way  into  expression.  The  smiles  and  the 
sadness  were  at  times  so  strangely  commingled,  that 
it  might  truly  be  said  of  her  she  was  smiling  at  her 
own  grief. 

Hers  was  a  heart-history,  upon  whose  pages  no 
eye  in  Willowbend  had  yet  rested.  While  she 
absolutely  avoided  -  the  society  of  none,  she  ap- 
peared shy  and  reserved  in  the  presence  of  all. 
Even  her  few  pupils  never  felt  altogether  at  their 
ease  in  her  company.  She  did  not,  however,  repel 
others ;  she  only  withdrew  within  herself. 

She  delighted  in  solitude ;  in  long  and  lonely 
walks  by  the  river;  in  her  own  sweet,  yet  sad- 
dened meditations.  When  school  was  over  for  the 
day,  she  not  unfrequently  wandered  away  by  her- 
self, and  was  gone  for  hours  together,  no  one  knew 
where. 

In  church,  she  was  the  same  sad-looking  beauty. 
Her  countenance  even  drew  the  eyes  of  many  of 
the  congregation  from  the  objects  to  which  they 
ought  devotionally  to  have  been  turned.  Every- 
body appeared  to  love  her,  for  her  innocence — for 
her  sweet  childishness — for  her  indescribable  grace 
• — and,  more  than  all,  for  her  secret  sorrow.  Ah, 
how  many  an  one  in  Willowbend  wished  to  reach 


THE  LONE   HEART.  151 

the  cankerous  grief  that  seemed  to  be  preying  on 
her  soul ! 

Mabel  stepped  to  the  door  of  her  apartment  on 
this  fine  morning  in  spring,  in  response  to  a  light 
knock  that  fell  on  her  ear.  Looking  out  into  the 
narrow  hall,  she  observed  a  young  girl,  who  in- 
stantly thrust  a  little  note  towards  her,  and  turned 
away. 

Mabel  read  it  in  silence,  and  for  at  least  a 
moment  afterwards  stood  lost  in  thought. 

The  burden  of  the  note  was  an  invitation  to  the 
residence  of  the  Misses  Jewsbury,  in  the  village,  on 
the  third  evening  thereafter. 

Mabel  Adair  had  had  but  a  slight  acquaintance 
with  the  Jewsburys,  as  indeed  with  all  the  rest  of 
the  village ;  but  they  had-  so  far  treated  her  with 
such  uniform  kindness  and  consideration,  that  she 
felt  already  half  compelled  to  respond  in  person  to 
their  request.  Besides,  the  language  of  the  note, 
was  so  tender  and  studiously  kind,  that  she  had  no 
heart  to  attempt  replying  by  any  expressions  of  re- 
gret that  she  was  unable  to  be  one  of  their  company. 

The  entire  forenoon  was  but  a  three  hours'  reverie 
for  the  girl.  She  caught  herself  frequently  gazing 
at  the  face  of  some  one  of  her  pupils,  she  knew 
not  why,  and  she  could  not  know  how  long.  Al- 
though the  child  stared  at  her,  too,  yet  Mabel  was 
conscious  of  nothino-  of  the  kind. 


152  CAP  SHEAF. 

When  the  confinement  of  the  day  was  over,  the 
young  teacher  strolled,  as  was  her  wont,  down  by 
the  river,  and  for  some  time  amused  herself  in  en- 
twining water-plants  into  green  wreaths  of  willow, 
and  musing  on  the  event  of  the  day.  This  invita- 
tion from  the  Jewsburys  had  proved,  in  very  truth, 
an  event  to  her,  as  it  threw  her  altogether  out  of  the 
quiet  channel  of  thought  in  which  she  had  always 
kept,  and  in  a  measure  excited  her  with  an  uncon- 
scious study  of  the  chances  of  the  future.  All  the 
naturally  modest  and  sensitive  instincts  of  the  timid 
girl  argued  strongly  against  her  going  to  the  party  ; 
yet  there  was  a  secret  influence  upon  her,  whither 
obtained  she  knew  not,  that '  set  all  her  instincts 
and  fears  at  open  defiance,  and  impressed  her  deeply 
with  the  necessity  of  being  present. 

And  while  she  wove  the  willow-wreaths,  and 
starred  their  emerald  green  with  bright  flower- 
cups,  she  resolved,  cost  what  the  effort  might,  to 
go.  And  at  once,  therefore,  she  set  herself  about 
making  the  preparations. 

The  eventful  night  chanced  to  be  dark,  and  the 
sky  was  heavily  overcast  with  clouds.  A  cool 
wind  drew  through  the  long  avenue  of  the  village, 
stirring  the  dense  masses  of  maple-leaves  upon  the 
boughs,  and  breathing  its  fragrance  beneath  every 
porch,  and  within  every  lattice. 

The  parlors  at  the  house  of  Mrs.  Jewsbury  were 


THE   LONE   HEART.  153 

already  densely  crowded,  when  Mabel  reached 
them.  She  at  once  paid  her  respectful  regards  to 
the  hostess  and  her  daughters  with  a  grace  pecu- 
liarly her  own,  while  she  carefully  avoided  making 
even  so  slight  a  display  of  herself  as  would  attract 
the  attention  of  any  other  one.  But  the  modesty 
of  Mabel  was  exactly  what  most  commended  her 
to  the  general  notice  and  respect.  She  uncon- 
sciously made  herself  what  she  desired  most  to 
avoid  being — the  observed  of  all. 

The  two  Misses  Jewsbury, — Ellen  and  Sarah, 
were,  physically  speaking,  beautiful  creatures. 
Everywhere  they  found  admirers,  and  in  abund- 
ance. They  were  gay-spirited — possessed  of  intel- 
lectual cultivation — wrote  what  were  called  elegant 
letters — sang  heart-killing  songs  at  the  piano-forte — 
and  dazzled  with  their  conversation.  Their  man- 
ners were  of  the  character  that  everywhere  makes 
a  sensation  ;  but  perhaps  not  always  an  impression. 

A  superabundance  of  family  pride  had  been  evi 
dently  instilled  into  their  nature,  and  it  never,  or 
scarce  ever,  lacked  an  opportunity  in  which  to  work 
its  way  to  the  surface.  And  however  much  atten- 
tion they  might  lavish  on  another,  it  was  not  dim- 
cult  to  see  that  they  did  it  quite  as  much  out  of 
regard  for  themselves  and  for  the  proper  display  of 
their  own  qualities,  as  for  any  other  purpose  that 
could  be  imagined. 

7* 


154  CAP  SHEAF. 

They  were  dressed,  on  this  evening  of  their  levee, 
in  elegant  taste,  with  a  full  eye  to  proper  effect. 
They  frequently  exchanged  words  with  each  other, 
in  such  high  tones  as  to  be  overheard  by  all  around 
them ;  on  which  occasions  they  never  forgot  that 
their  names  were  respectively  Jewsbury,  nor  the 
peculiar  merit  that  seemed  to  be  represented  by 
that  name. 

The  Jewsburys  had  invited  several  of  their 
friends  from  abroad  to  their  house,  on  this  evening, 
and  among  the  rest,  a  young  gentleman  named 
Henry  Judson.  This  gentleman  was  reported  to 
be  a  student-at-law  in  the  office  of  a  distinguished 
practitioner  in  the  metropolis,  and  had  come  to 
Willowbend,  in  express  obedience  to  the  request 
of  his  friends,  the  Jewsburys. 

His  personal  appearance  was  attractive,  and  his 
conversational  powers  were  certainly  superior. 
Perhaps  both  the  Misses  Jewsbury  had  set  their 
hearts  upon  him;  although  their  proud  mother  had 
marked  him  indisputably  for  her  daughter  Ellen, 
who  was  two  years  the  elder  of  Sarah.  He  was 
reputed  to  be  possessed  of  great  wealth — for  a 
young  man— but  his  talents  seemed  not  at  all 
eclipsed  in  their  native  brilliancy  by  the  glitter  of 
the  gold.  So  much  the  more,  said  every  one,  to 
his  credit  and  advantage. 

"Who  is  that  charming  girl,   yonder?"   asked 


THE   LONE   HEART.  155 

Mr.  Judson  of  his  friend  Ellen  Jewsbury,  as  they 
were  carelessly  promenading  the  parlors  together. 
"  I  have  observed  her  several  times  this  evening, 
and  each  time  she  interests  me  the  more.  I  like 
her  appearance  much." 

"  Do  you  ?"  questioned  Ellen,  in  an  abstracted 
tone. 

"  Yes,  I  must  say  that  I  have  rarely  ever  seen  so 
sweetly  pensive  a  face,  in  my  life." 

"  Mr.  Judson  !"  exclaimed  Ellen  in  reply. 

"I  declare,  Miss  Ellen,"  said  he,  "I  must  re- 
quest an  introduction  to  her  !  You  know  her,  of 
course  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  her  name  is  Adair,"  answered  Ellen, 
slowly. 

"  And  am  I  at  all  mistaken  in  my  estimate  of 
her?" 

"That  I  can't  tell  you;  for  she  has  not  been  a 
resident  of  the  village  long,  and  I  am  but  little 
acquainted  with  her,  at  the  best.  But  she's  only  a 
teacher" 

Perhaps  there  was  an  undue  emphasis  upon  the 
last  word  that  fell,  from  the  lips  of  Ellen  Jewsbury. 
At  any  rate,  Mr.  Judson  dropped  his  searching 
eyes  to  her  mouth  just  at  that  inopportune  mo- 
ment, and  there  read  the  lines  of  disdain. 

"  A  teacher  ?"  repeated  he,  after  her. 

"That  is  all.     Now  do  you  want  an  introduc- 


156  ^      CAP  SHEAF. 

tion?"  she  added,  with  some  little  timidity,  yet 
throwing  the  sunshine  of  a  smile  over  the  whole. 

"But  a  teacher  of  what?"  persistently  question- 
ed he. 

"  Of  drawing,  I  believe." 

"  Then  I  shall  so  much  the  sooner  desire  to  be 
presented  to  her.  Yes,  may  I  ask  the  favor  of  you 
now,  Miss  Jewsbury  ?" 

She  bowed  slightly  in  assent,  and  immediately 
led  him  to  the  charming  girl.  Mabel  Adair  receiv- 
ed him  with  her  wonted  ease,  when  Ellen  instantly 
turned  and  left  them  alone  together.  It  was  plain 
to  Mr.  Judson  that  she  was  not  altogether  pleased 
with  his  interest  in  this  stranger,  and  he  treasured 
the  secret  in  his  heart,  resolved  at  his  earliest 
opportunity  to  revolve  it  again.  For  the  present, 
however,  he  was  altogether  taken  up  with  Mabel. 

The  conversation  was  upon  the  art  which  most 
interested  her ;  and  he  assured  her  of  the  deep 
sympathy  he  himself  possessed  for  her  profession, 
by  the  many  happy  expressions  he  employed  in  its 
connection. 

He  succeeded,  by  his  intelligent  and  refined  re- 
marks, in  interesting  her  deeply  in  her  subject; 
and  when  at  length  her  increased  earnestness  broke 
down,  in  a  measure,  the  restraints  of  her  speech, 
and  infused  a  warmth  into  her  manner,  she  betray- 
ed a  secret  and  indefinable  beauty  he  was  not  pre- 


THE   LONE   HEART,  f  157 

pared  to  expect.  And  to  all  appearances,  she  be- 
came reciprocally  interested  in  him ;  although  the 
self-imposed  constraint  of  her  manner  struggled 
hard  with  her  disposition  to  betray  it. 

As  the  time  passed  away,  the  young  man  found 
himself  quite  committed  to  Mabel's  interests.  He 
had  already  told  her  how  long  he  intended  to 
remain  at  Willowbend,  and  proposed  to  himself 
the  pleasure  of  visiting  her  at  her  leisure,  and  of 
talking  more  on  the  topics  that  had  so  much  in- 
terested them  on  that  evening. 

The  remainder  of  the  evening  offered  but  little 
other  pleasure  to  Mr.  Judson  than  what  he  found 
in  the  presence  of  Miss  Mabel  Adair.  The  very 
atmosphere  around  her  seemed  spiritual ;  even  her 
eyes  appeared  to  shoot  glances  of  ethereal  power, 
within  whose  attractive  spell  he  was  both  charmed 
and  subdued. 

And  although  he  paid  as  much  attention  there- 
after to  Miss  Ellen  Jewsbury  as  was  both  proper 
and  agreeable  to  her,  yet  a  look  of  dissatisfaction — 
perhaps  it  was  of  envy — rested  upon  her  counte- 
nance, and  she  could  not  conceal  the  rankling  at 
her  heart  from  his  observation. 

What  made  the  affair  still  more  intricate,  and 
excited  Miss  Ellen's  jealousy  and  dissatisfaction 
still  more, — he  offered  very  gallantly  to  wait  upon 
Mabel  to  her  home,  .after  the  breaking  up  of  the 


158  %»       CAP  SHEAF. 

party  ;  and  his  offer  was  gratefully  accepted.  This 
step  was  the  crowning  one  of  his  evening.  He 
might  have  done  all  he  did  do,  save  this,  and  per- 
haps his  conduct  would  have  been  overlooked. 
This  was  something,  which  the  Jewsburys  would 
be  loth  to  pass  by  unnoticed. 

The  second  day  after  this,  Mr.  Judson  and  Mabel 
were  seen  walking  slowly  in  the  direction  of  the 
little  river.  They  were  chatting  gayly,  and  the 
countenance  of  Mabel  seemed  irradiated  with  a  new 
light ;  yet  the  cloud  of  sadness  was  not  altogether 
lifted.  It  had  apparently  come  to  be  a  part  of  her 
settled  expression. 

They  wandered  along  until  they  reached  a  par- 
ticular spot  which  Mabel  called  the  favorite  one  of 
the  many  she  had  chosen.  It  was  a  grassy  little 
knoll,  that  looked  down  into  the  river,  and  might 
have  been  prettily  called  a  headland.  Here  they 
seated  themselves.  Drooping  willows  were  at  their 
backs,  and  the  glassing  water  swelled  at  their  feet. 

They  talked  of  drawing,  and  freely  discussed  its 
charms  for  a  poetic  mind.  Then  they  passed  on  to 
painting,  and  pictures,  and  scenery.  And  from 
nature  to  poetry.  And  from  poetry — the  passage 
is  always  so  easy — to  the  human  heart  itself. 

The  young  man  grew  eloquent  in  his  description 
of  the  subtle  and  evanescent  thoughts  that  entered 
his  mind,  and  of  the  ethereal*  feelings  that  chased 


THE   LONE  HEART,  f       .  159 

over  the  surface  of  his  soul.  He  betrayed  to  Mabel 
the  depth,  and  the  breadth,  and  the  intensity  of 
that  sjunpathy,  which  kindles  with  no  warning, 
and  flames  beyond  control.  His  voice  to  her  ear 
was  welcome  music.  His  looks — when  she  dared 
meet  them  for  a  moment — were  full  of  love.  There 
was  a  radiance  about  his  countenance,  which  she 
had  never  before  beheld. 

And  in  despite  of  himself,  or  perhaps  in  true 
keeping  with  his  resolution,  he  declared  to  Mabel 
all  his  preferences.  He  confessed  ^,t  last  his  love. 
She  heard  from  his  own  feverish  lips,  that  she  was 
the  beloved  of  his  heart — and  he,  only  a  week  ago, 
an  entire  stranger ! 

They  sat  there  on  that  little  river-headland,  and 
talked  long  about  it.  The  young  man  was  in  love 
— deeply,  irrevocably  in  love.  His  happiness  could 
not  be  full,  till  he  had  heard  from  Mabel's  own  lips 
that  his  passion  was  returned. 

He  did  hear  it  at  last.  The  confession  was  finally 
made.  Even  the  modest  and  sensitive  heart  of 
Mabel  Adair  was  too  full  of  truth  to  be  guilty  of 
deceit  at  a  moment  so  fraught  with  interest  as  this. 

It  was  a  hasty  thought.  No — it  was  no  thought 
at  all.  It  had  been  no  carefully  prepared  plan.  Its 
very  suddenness  was  but  the  better  proof  of  its 
truthfulness.  They  became  at  once  betrothed. 

And  a  long  time  thereafter  they  continued  sitting 


160  CAP  SHEAF. 

on  the  hillock  by  the  river.  Their  voices  were  low 
and  soft.  Often  they  did  not  speak  at  all  for  many 
moments,  but  only  gazed  into  each  other's  eyes. 
The  silence  was  language  for  them.  It  was  full  of 
thoughts,  and  they  needed  no  interpreter. 

The  sun  had  gone  down.  Swart  shadows  were 
trooping  down  across  the  lawn ;  and  sombre  fancies 
played  and  danced  about  the  argent  surface  of  the 
river.  The  night-chorus  of  the  insects  had  begun. 

The  two  lovers  only  then  thought  to  take  their 
way  back  to  the  village  again. 

The  young  man  involuntarily  turned  about  to 
catch  a  last  look  at  the  spot  where  he  had  come 
into  possession  of  so  much  happiness.  It  was 
already  a  thousand  times  hallowed  in  his  eyes. 

When  they  reached  the  village  street,  it  was 
quite  dusk.  Old  and  young  people  were  leisurely 
promenading  the  walks,  and  strolling  over  the 
broad  belts  of  sward  that  lay  on  either  side  the 
street ;  and  the  hum  of  life  that  rose  on  the  even- 
ing air,  was  full  of  soft  and  lulling  melody. 

They  reached  the  apartment  of  Mabel,  and  the 
young  man  entered.  An  hour  passed  away  there 
— an  hour  of  complete  happiness. 

It   was   time    at  length  that  Mr.  Judson 

should  take  his  final  departure  from  the  village.  His 
arrangements  for  a  correspondence  with  Mabel  had 
been  all  perfected,  and  he  had  grown  a  thousand 


THE  LONE   HEABT.   '  161 

times  happier  in  the  consciousness  of  her  undivided 
love.  They  had  spoken  the  sad  syllables  of  parting 
— Mabel's  eyes  were  glistening  with  tears — her  lip 
quivered  with  emotion — she  felt  already  far  more 
desolate  than  she  ever  had  before.  This  love  of 
theirs,  was  a  love  at  first  sight ;  and  it  was  quite  as 
complete  as  it  had  been  sudden.  It  would  grow 
far  stronger,  too,  from  their  separation. 

Mr.  Judson  called  to  take  his  leave  of  the  Jews- 
burys.  The  mother  received  him  alone.  The  girls 
were  not  to  be  seen.  He  thought  the  reason  of 
this  was  all  plain  enough,  and  determined  to  ask 
no  unnecessary  questions.  Mrs.  Jewsbury  was 
cool,  and  reserved,  and  unusually  dignified  in  her 
manner  ;  making  not  the  slightest  allusion  to 
Mabel,  nor  to  the  interest  Mr.  Judson  had  taken  in 
her.  Yet  she  could  not  but  know  all  about  it,  too. 

Leaving  regards  for  the  girls,  he  took  a  welcome 
leave.  In*  an  hour,  he  was  two  miles  beyond  the 
boundaries  of  the  town. 

Scarcely  a  month  had  passed  away,  when 

Mabel  found,  much  to  her  dismay,  that  her  pupils 
were  fast  leaving  her.  She  knew  not  how  to 
account  for  this,  yet  she  feared  that  she  must  have 
innocently  committed  some  error.  She  sat  alone 
by  the  hour  in  her  school-room,  and  tried  to  thread 
the  mystery.  But  the  matter  served  but  to  perplex 
and  sadden  her  the  more. 


162  CAP  SHEAF. 

All  the  time  she  kept  it  from  Mr.  Judson,  though 
she  was  in  constant  correspondence  with  him.  She 
knew  that  her  income  would  soon  prove  inadequate 
to  her  support,  yet,  with  a  pride  that  would  have 
driven  her  to  suffer  long  and  bitterly,  she  never 
thought  of  laying  the  subject  of  her  wants  before 
her  accepted  lover.  He  had  himself,  too,  many  a 
time  given  himself  much  thought  respecting  her 
impoverished  situation,  and  inwardly  felt  the  fears 
that  told  him  she  might  then  be  at  the  mercy  of  her 
enemies.  But  he  knew  not  how  best  to  address  her 
on  the  subject;  and  he  would  on  no  account  have 
consented  to  wound  her  feelings.  And  thus  the 
troubles  thronged  about  her,  threatening  to  drive 
her  away  from  the  village  altogether. 

She  was  sitting  in  her  room,  one  evening,  sadly 
thinking  of  her  prospects.  The  very  assurance  of 
Mr.  Judson's  love,  only  heightened  her  sadness.  It 
seemed  to  her  a  wealth  that  had  no  power  to  re- 
lieve her  when  in  the  deepest  need. 

Her  drawings  lay  scattered  over  the  table ;  seve- 
ral well-used  books  were  close  at  hand ;  the  window 
was  opened ;  and  the  light  wind  of  early  autumn 
was  drawing  through.  The  same  expression  of 
sadness  was  upon  her  beautiful  face.  The  same 
drooping  of  the  eyelids  betokened  the  secret  sor- 
row. She  had  been  laboring  to  find  fault  with  all 
her  actions,  to  determine  what  one  it  was  to  which 


THE   LONE   HEAET.  163 

she  might  refer  her  present  condition.  Shadows 
were  fast  stealing  in  through  the  windows,  and  had 
already  nearly  filled*  the  room.  They  were  her 
only  company. 

She  was  suddenly  awaked  from  her  reverie  by  a 
tap  on  her  door.  She  called  out  to  her  visitor  in 
her  lute-like  voice,  and  the  door  swung  slowly 
open. 

Mr.  Judson  entered,  and  stood  before  her ! 

Uttering  a  wild  cry,  she  hastily  rose  and  fell  into 
his  outstretched  arms. 

They  sat  down  together  in  the  gloaming,  and  re- 
peated their  vows  again,  and  again,  and  again. 
And  as  soon  as  Mabel's  heart  could  bear  it,  after 
she  had  freely  given  up  all  her  griefs  to  her  lover, 
he  told  her  the  story  he  had  come  so  expressly  to 
tell  her.  It  was  in  few  words,  but  full  of  meaning ; 
and  this  was  the  meaning  : 

Mr.  Judson  had  accidentally  become  acquainted 
with  the  history  of  Mabel's  father,  though  not, 
however,  from  her  lips.  He  learned  that  the 
wealth  of  which  the  Jewsburys  made  such  ostenta- 
tion, only  belonged  to  Mabel ! — and  of  this  im- 
portant fact  he  had  irrefragable  proof.  He  had 
come  to  apprise  Mabel  of  the  unexpected  change 
in  her  circumstances. 

—  Alternately  she  wept  and  laughed  over  the 
intelligence,  but  at  length  managed  to  compose  her- 


16-i  CAP  SHEAF. 

self  sufficiently  to  allow  him  to  make  a  visit  to  the 
Jews,burys  themselves.  To  the  mother  he  commu- 
nicated this  most  unwelcome  news.  She  was  nearly 
insane  at  the  proof  of  it.  Mr.  Jewsbury  was  dead, 
and  Mabel's  father  had  been  long  gone ;  there  was 
no  need  to  rake  over  old  matters  again.  Yet  the 
Jewsburys  knew  they  were  now  poor,  and  the 
thought  humiliated  them.  They  might  have 
winked  at  a  misdemeanor ;  but  poverty  would 
seem  to  them  to  be  a  taint  in  their  blood. 

So  kind  was  Mabel's  heart,  and  so  sweet 

her  method  of  punishment,  that  she  freely  offered 
Mrs.  Jewsbury  the  home  she  then  possessed,  beside 
enough  more  to  make  her  abundantly  happy  ;  and 
even  then  an  ample  fortune  was  left  for  herself. 
And  to  crown  all,  Mabel  promised,  and  made  Mr. 
Judson  promise,  too,  that  nothing  of  all  this  should 
be  told  in  the  village.  It  would  cause  needless 
pain.  Then,  for  the  first  time,  Mrs.  Jewsbury 
made  a  clean  confession.  She  told  Mabel  that  she 
had  herself  raised  public  prejudice  against  her 
name,  and  thus  robbed  her  of  her  scholars  and  her 
support.  And  in  this  way  was  she  punished  ;  by 
the  generous  kindness  of  the  lone  heart  she  would 
have  gladly  crushed. 

Mabel  went  to  join  her  lover  in  town, 

where  they  were  married  at  length.  The  sad  heart 
of  the  girl  had  at  last  found  its  mate,  and  the 
shadow  vanished  from  her  beautiful  brow. 


THE    POOE    SCHOLAR. 

"TvEXTER  BRAND  could  not  have  been  a  year 
\J  older  than  eighteen. 

He  was  sitting  in  his  pent-up  little  room  one 
forenoon  in  May,  reviewing  his  brief  fortunes,  and 
assiduously  endeavoring  to  map  out  some  sort  of  a 
future  for  himself.  He  knew  well  enough  that  he 
lacked  not  for  earnestness  and  energy,  and  hesitated 
only  in  studying  the  particular  direction  in  which 
they  could  be  employed  most  successfully. 

Dexter  Brand  was  a  young  man,  with  dreams  of 
ambition  and  high  hopes  of  fame.  Early  an  orphan, 
— without  sister  or  brother, — he  had  been  left  to 
hew  out  his  own  ideas  of  life,  and  his  own  chances 
of  good  or  ill  fortune.  Events,  trivial  and  im- 
portant, had  combined  to  concentrate  his  thoughts 
on  the  single  purpose  of  acquiring  an  education. 
He  thought  he  could  see  the  mortification  and  un- 
easiness men  constantly  experienced,  who,  after  a 
lifetime  of  money-making,  at  length  tried  to  extract 
enjoyment  from  their  hoardings  alone;  and  resolved, 


166  CAP  SHEAF. 

cost  what  labor  and  denial  the  effort  might,  to  first 
fit  himself  to  enjoy  something  of  more  value  than 
money. 

A  brave  heart  had  young  Dexter  Brand,  and  as 
full  of  fresh  and  tender  feeling  as  it  was  brave. 
What  he  determined  upon,  he  tried  to  execute. 
The  sense  of  his  loneliness  sometimes  almost  over- 
powered him ;  but  his  mind  recovered  its  tone 
again,  and  his  energies  bounded  as  if  the  little 
room  could  scarce  contain  him.  He  painted  the 
most  glowing  pictures  of  his  future ;  dreamed  the 
wildest  dreams  ;  raised  his  soul  with  thoughts  of 
enjoying  the  sunshine  of  fortune;  and  fired  his 
energies  anew  with  the  boyish  contemplation  of 
what  men  had  accomplished  for  themselves,  starting 
at  a  more  obscure  point  than  he. 

He  lived  alone,  in  the  oldest  and  oddest  building 
known  in  all  Hazleton.  The  house  had  long  ago 
been  bereft  of  tenants,  and  strong  and  tangled 
weeds  resisted  the  claims  of  culture  in  the  little 
garden  at  the  back  door.  It  was  >a  low^roofed 
house,  with  a  stooping  doorway,  and  a  chimney 
that  occupied  just  one-third  of  its  area.  All  sorts 
of  wild  wood-vines  ran  helter-skelter  over  the 
brown  shingles,  and  dropped  down  over  the  eaves 
again  in  luxuriant  bunches.  Even  from  his  little 
window,  a  view  of  the  winding  road  could  be  ob- 
tained only  by  forcibly  thrusting  aside  the  lattice- 


THE   POOE  SCHOLAR.  167 

work  of  leaves,  and  peering  through  the  thick 
shadows  of  the  deep  emerald. 

On  this  reviving  morning  in  May,  Dexter  Brand 
was  sitting  alone,  as  usual,  in  an  uncouth  arm-chair 
near  his  round  table,  with  a  book  opened  before 
him,  and  other  volumes  plentifully  strewn  about. 
There  was  no  covering  to  the  oaken  floor,  and  no 
cloth  to  his  hard  table.  There  were,  likewise,  but 
two  other  chairs  in  the  room, — and  a  little  door- 
way betrayed  the  passage  to  his  bedroom.  Poverty 
came  in  and  sat  down  in  the  room  with  him,  and 
Dexter  Brand  welcomed  his  visitor.  His  spirit 
never  chafed.  He  lost  none  of  his  life  in  fretting. 
The  one  purpose  of  his  mind  was  set  steadily  be- 
fore him  ;  and  its  realization  could  be  effected  only 
through  silent  and  resolute  endurance. 

This  morning  he  felt  unusually  sad  and  lonely. 
The  fragrant  breaths  that  blew  in  at  the  window, 
weaned  his  heart  from  his  studies,  and  almost  made 
him  irresolute.  He  lifted  his  eyes  longingly  to  the 
landscape,  and  let  his  gaze  wander  listlessly  over 
it,  until  he  lost  himself  in  dreams  of  the  dim  blue 
beyond.  His  hands  grasped  his  chair  at  first,  but 
now  dropped  slowly  into  his  lap.  The  balm  of  the 
air, — the  sweet  sounds  of  morning, — the  thoughts 
of  a  dim  and  distant  future, — all  conspired  to  over- 
power his  waking  faculties.  In  a  few  moments  he 
dreamed.  A  lone,  friendless,  ambitious  youth, — 


168  CAP   SHEAF. 

in  a  deserted  old  house, — with  a  few  books,  and 
scarce  any  furniture, — dreaming !  It  was  indeed  a 
scene  for  a  painter. 

What  his  visions  were,  no  one  could  tell.  They 
might  have  been  of  trial,  and  want,  and  wo.  They 
were  perhaps  of  the  cruel  bufferings  of  pretended 
friends,  and  of  cowardly  enemies  who  never  strike 
but  in  the  dark.  Perhaps  he  dreamed  of  his  sainted 
mother, — of  her  cheering  and  consoling  syllables, — 
and  of  her  undying  smile.  He  surely  must  have 
dreamed  of  glorious  prospects, — of  increasing  for- 
tune,— of  troops  of  friends, — of  the  fruition  of  his 
dearest  hopes.  Such  dreams  could  not  have  kept 
themselves  out  of  his  brain.  At  length  he  mur- 
mured in  his  sleep  :  "I  cannot !  no,  I  cannot !  It's 
too  hard  !  I  must  give  it  up !" 

Could  his  heart  have  shrunk  even  then  from  the 
endurance  of  the  stern  condition  of  fortune  ?  Was 
he  wavering  ?  broken  with  fear  ?  hopeless  ?  Had 
he  dashed  his  purposes  down  in  an  empty  dream  ? 
— those  high  and  lofty  purposes  to  whose  attain- 
ment he  had  early  pledged  his  lifetime  ! 

"I've  no  more  money!  no  friends!"  So  he 
muttered  in  his  sleep  :  "  It's  a  sore  trial !  It's  all  a 
war  with  life  itself!  I  shall  sink  in  the  battle  !" 

Courage,  Dexter  Brand !  courage !  All  you  need 
now  is  a  little  more  of  that.  Fortune  has  defied 
you  at  the  outset ;  only  look  sharply  in  her  face, 


THE   POOR   SCHOLAR.  169 

and  she  will  warmly  open  her  arms  and  welcome 
you  at  last.  She  delights  in  making  cowards  of  us 
all.  She  likes  the  white  lips,  and  vacant  eyes. 
But  courage!  and  you  shall  wring  from  her  plenti- 
ful hand  what  you  will. 

It  might  have  been  a  half-hour,  on  that  balmy 
May  morning,  that  the  poor  scholar  slept  in  his 
chair.  He  was  fanned  by  the  freshest  breezes,  and 
invigorated  by  the  incense  of  a  thousand  flowers. 
Yet  he  was  poor!  Yes,— as  men  call  each  other 
poor ;  but  his  heart  was  a  treasury  overflowing 
with  wealth.  So  was  his  brain.  He  breathed  the 
same  air  with  the  wealthiest  landlords  about  him  ; 
while  he  was  but  the  friendless  occupant  of  a  hovel. 
Before  all  worldly  wealth  was  his  to  be  reckoned. 
It  could  not  be  sold  in  parcels.  It  was  inherent ; 
indisputable ;  complete. 

An  oriole  sat  swinging  carelessly  on  the  lower 
bough  of  the  great  elm  that  dropped  its  shadows 
down  upon  the  roof,  and  her  voice  was  an  unbroken 
gushing  of  melody.  The  very  air  seemed  to  vibrate 
with  musical  echoes.  The  echoes  sailed  into  the 
current  of  his  dreams,  just  as  painted  bubbles  sail 
down  the  limpid  surface  of  the  water.  Now  his 
thoughts  grew  suddenly  tempestuous.  His  fears 
seemed  to  have  vanished,  or  changed  into  chimeras 
and  shadowy  spectres.  The  future  took  new  colors. 
The  skies  had  buried  the  clouds  within  their  azure 


170  CAP  SHEAF. 

depths.  The  gushing  melody,  so  clear,  so  full,  so 
intoxicating,  with  such  multiplied  echoes, — it  at 
last  awoke  him.  He  opened  his  eyes  in  wonder, 
and  looked  abstractedly  out  at  the  window ;  as  if 
it  were  some  great  wrong,  that  he  had  so  far  for- 
gotten himself  as  to  fall  asleep  in  the  glare  of  broad 
day.  Then  he  gazed  about  the  room,  and  still 
wondered.  At  length  his  eyes  dropped  to  the 
table  before  him.  There  was  his  big  lexicon,  still 
'  wide  open.  Yes,  but  something  more.  He  looked 
closer,  leaning  down  his  head.  A  note  lay  across 
the  page !  He  took  it  hurriedly  in  his  hand,  and 
examined  the  superscription,  not  without  sensation. 
It  was  in  a  lady's  hand,  and  directed  properly  to 
him.  How  wildly  beat  his  heart  as  he  traced  the 
letters !  He  could  scarcely  nerve  himself  to  the 
task  of  breaking  the  seal ;  so  great  was  his  wonder. 
The  opening  of  the  mysterious  letter  betrayed 
the  enclosure  of  a  bank  note,  of  the  value  of  one 
hundred  dollars.  The  poor  scholar  could  hardly 
believe  his  eyes.  He  read.  It  was  simply  the  de- 
sire of  the  writer  that  he  should  employ  the  amount 
enclosed  in  aid  of  educating  himself,  as  he  had 
originally  purposed.  No  name  was  appended  to 
the  note,  and  no  motive  was  betrayed  for  so  strange 
a  mode  of  rendering  assistance.  Nothing  was  ex- 
pressed but  an  earnest  desire  that  he  should  prose-, 
cute  his  studies  with  all  his  zeal,  and  depend  upon 


' 


THE  POOR  SCHOLAR.  171 

the  fidelity  of  at  least  one  friend.  Tears  instantly 
blinded  his  eyes ;  and  his  lonely  heart  became  a 
psalm  of  thanksgiving. 

The  poor  scholar  took  courage.  His  resolution 
was  greatly  strengthened.  He  bent  to  his  lonely 
studies  after  this  with  new  zeal,  resolved  to  prove 
himself  worthy  of  the  confidence  his  unknown 
friend  had  reposed  in  him.  The  mystery  of  the 
donation  served  but  to  excite  him  to  higher  effort. 

That  same  autumn  he  entered  college,  joining  an 
advanced  class.  His  progress  was  marked  by  stern 
devotion  to  duty,  and  eminent  successful  ness  in  his 
aims.  None  ranked  higher  in  point  of  scholarship 
than  Dexter  Brand.  His  entire  collegiate  course 
was  a  scene  of  trials  and  triumphs.  The  same 
mysterious  hand  supplied  his  wants  through  the 
whole  of  his  studies.  After  graduating  from  the 
university,  he  set  at  once  about  the  study  of  the 
law.  In  this  profession  he  had  promised  himself 
the  proudest  triumphs.  And  in  a  couple  of  years 
afterwards  he  was  fairly  admitted,  and  seated  com- 
fortably in  his  office  chair,  waiting  for  the  oppor- 
tunity to  come  when  he  should  be  permitted  to 
draw  his  first  brief. 

Yet  he  sat  not  idly;  only  idly  waiting.  He 
labored  still ;  as  if  he  were 'already  in  the  full  tide 
of  a  successful  and  increasing  practice.  Day  and 
night,  late  and  early, — he  was  over  his  books.  His 


172  CAP  SHEAF. 

industry  and  earnestness  were  indefatigable.  No 
principles,  that  he  labored  not  to  master.  No 
rules,  he  did  not  determine  to  make  familiar. 
No  ordinary  forms  of  practice,  in  which  he  did 
not  design  to  make  himself  perfect.  And  slowly, 
steadily,  but  surely,  there  was  growing  up  in  him 
a  strength  of  character,  and  a  comprehensiveness 
of  plan  and  purpose,  that  promised  a  rich  fruitage 
in  after  time.  Maturity  was  being  born  of  labor, 
earnestness,  and  steadily-directed  industry.  And 
success  was  the  certain  result  to  which  he  would 
ultimately  attain. 

He  was  sitting  in  his  office-chair,  one  fine  spring 
morning, — almost  such  a  morning  as  that  on  which 
he  dreamed  in  his  student-chair,  in  the  old  house, — 
turning  his  thoughts  in  this  direction  and  in  that, — 
now  on  one  subject,  and  now  on  another, — when 
his  door  suddenly  opened,  and  a  lady  entered. 
She  was  clad  in  deep  mourning,  and  her  head  was 
partially  bowed,  as  with  grief.  As  she  raised  her 
face  to  that  of  the  youthful  lawyer,  she  betrayed 
an  expression  of  settled  sadness.  Yet  her  counte- 
nance was  faintly  irradiated  with  a  sweet  smile, 
that  added  greatly  to  her  native  beauty.  He  in- 
stantly rose  and  handed  her  a  seat.  She  at  once, 
therefore,  began  her  business  with  him.  Her  story, 
in  substance,  was  as  follows  : 

She  had  been  left  a  widow  only 'two  or  three 


THE   POOR  SCHOLAR.  173 

years  before  with  what,  at  the  time,  she  considered 
an  ample  fortune.  Her  husband's  will  had  be- 
queathed her  the  entire  bulk  of  his  property,  after 
the  few  debts  had  been  paid  which  were  therein 
enumerated.  Greatly  to  her  surprise,  she  had  been 
not  long  afterward  informed  by  the  two  executors 
of  the  will,  that  her  husband's  debts  scarcely  left 
her  a  subsistence.  After  all  these  were  paid,  there 
were  but  two  or  three  thousand  dollars  for  her. 

She  acquainted  the  young  lawyer  with  her  sus- 
picions that  all  was  not  as  it  should  be.  Debts  had 
been  brought  forward  .against  the  estate,  of  whose 
existence  she  had  had  no  suspicion.  Her  husband 
had  gone  through  an  enumeration  of  his  liabilities, 
in  his  last  will  and  testament ;  if,  then,  these  new 
debts  were  honest  ones,  they  branded  his  name 
with  the  infamy  of  deliberate  and  malicious  false- 
hood. It  was  as  much  to  vindicate  his  memory,  as 
any  thing  else,  that  she  was  anxious  to  have  a 
thorough  examination  made  of  the  whole  affair ; 
and  she  desired,  too,  that  it  might  be  made  without 
exciting  the  least  suspicions  of  any  parties  con- 
cerned in  the  execution  of  the  will. 

Dexter  Brand  wondered,  as  well  he  might,  at 
the  motive  that  prompted  this  lady  to  consult  with 
him  on  the  subject,  stranger  as  she  was  to  him. 
But  he  was  not  at  liberty  to  satisfy  his  curiosity 
by  asking  questions.  The  lady  might  have  been 


174  CAP  SHEAF. 

specially  referred  to  him  by  some  unknown  friend. 
He  knew  not.  At  all  events,  she  was  young,  bean- 
tiful,  and  fascinating  in  her  manner  and  conversa- 
tion ;  and  these  items  were  by  no  means  without 
their  influence  upon  the  mind  of  the  young  lawyer. 

He  forthwith  sat  down  to  his  table,  and  made  a 
note  of  the  various  points  given  him  by  Mrs.  "Wells, 
— for  that  was  the  name  of  his  fair  client ;  and  then 
carefully  folded  the  paper  and  put  it  away  in  his 
pocket.  The  interview  then  terminated. 

Dexter  Brand's  work  thereafter  was  before  him. 
He  fell  to  it  with  redoubled  energy,  determined  to 
gain  a  cause  about  which  s^much  mystery  was 
woven.  Accordingly,  he  first  went  to  the  regis- 
trar's office,  where  wills  were  recorded,  and  made  a 
careful  and  thorough  examination  of  the  document 
in  question.  Taking  a  copy  of  this,  he  returned 
to  his  office  to  think  what  should  be  his  next  best 
step.  He  threw  himself  back  in  his  spacious  chair 
and  held  the  will  before  him,  reading  and  reflecting 
by  turns,  for  a  long  time.  He  sifted  the  whole 
matter  to  the  bottom.  There  was  not  an  aspect  of 
the  case  possible  for  him  to  take,  that  he  did  not 
take.  He  viewed  it  on  all  sides,  turning  it  over 
and  over  again  in  his  mind.  If  there  was  iniquity- 
discoverable,  he  meant  to  discover  it.  If  that 
could  not  be  done,  he  certainly  could  not  be  held 


THE   POOR  SCHOLAR.  175 

answerable  for  the  opinion  the  lady  must  have  of 
her  deceased  husband's  veracity. 

Frequent  interviews  between  himself  and  Mrs. 
Wells  thereafter  ensued  ;  during  which  the  young 
practitioner  felt  his  heart  rapidly  yielding  to  the 
charms  of  her  mind  and  manners.  She  likewise 
introduced  him  to  her  mother, — also  a  widowed 
lady, — who  seemed  from  the  first  to  manifest  more 
than  ordinary  interest  in  him.  The  three  together 
held  long  and  frequent  consultations  respecting  the 
case  in  hand,  from  each  of  which  Dexter  Brand 
went  with  increased  confidence  in  the  cause  of  his 
fair  client. 

At  length,  one  fine  morning,  he  closed  his  office- 
blinds,  locked  his  door,  and  went  on  board  a  vessel 
bound  for  the  West  Indies.  No  one  knew  where 
he  had  gone,  however,  and  no  one  suspected  the 
nature  of  the  business  that  carried  him  away.  He 
was  absent  for  about  two  months.  The  very  even- 
ing of  his  return  was  passed  at  the  residence  of  his 
client,  whose  now  irradiated  countenance  seemed 
to  betray  the  double  satisfaction  she  felt  at  his  safe 
arrival.  His  plan  was  at  once  laid  open  to  her  and 
her  mother,  and  to  all  his  suggestions  their  assent 
was  unqualifiedly  given.  He  assured  them  of  his 
increased  confidence  in  the  justice  of  their  case ; 
and,  after  a  long  evening,  left  them,  to  think  more 
upon  the  purpose  he  had  conceived.  It  was  a  long 


176  CAP  SHEAF. 

night  to  him,  and  a  sleepless  one.  He  had  got 
hold  of  his  first  important  case.  He  meant  to 
make  the  most  of  it. 

-  The  court-room  was  crowded  with  spectators. 

The  judge  sat  on  'the  bench,  and  a  semicircle  of 
barristers  hedged  him  in.  Among  the  latter  was 
young  Dexter  Brand.  The  case  of  Mrs.  "Wells 
versus  John  Wilson  and  Edward  Summerville, 
executors  of  the  last  will  and  testament  of  the  late 
husband  of  Mrs.  Wells,  was  duly  called.  The 
plaintiff  was  in  court,  and  so  were  the  defendants. 
Mr.  Brand,  attorney  for  the  plaintiff,  duly  opened 
the  case,  stating  the  object  he  intended  to  make 
plain,  and  the  proofs  he  intended  to  bring  forward. 
His  speech  was  a  brief  and  succinct  narration  of  the 
various  events  connected  with  the  settling  of  the 
will,  superadded  to  which  were  a  few  pregnant 
hints  in  relation  to  his  own  version  of  the  affair. 
That  version  he  hoped  to  make  clear  to  the  minds 
of  the  jury  he  was  addressing: 

The  counsel  for  the  two  executors  of  the  will 
replied  to  the  speech  of  Mr.  Brand,  indignantly 
repelling  any  and  all  insinuations  thus  thrown  upon 
his  clients,  and  warning  the  youthful  practitioner 
of  the  responsibility  he  must  take  upon  his  shoul- 
ders, if  such  statements  were  persisted  in. 

"  I  do  persist  in  them !"  boldly  interrupted  Dexter 


THE  POOR  SCHOLAR.  177 

Brand,  his  brilliant  eyes  flashing  fire  with  the 
words. 

"  Then  we  hold  you  to  the  consequences,"  replied 
the  opposing  counsel. 

"  After  this  trial  is  over,  I  shall  find  no  difficulty 
in  meeting  them,"  curtly  rejoined  he. 

There  was  a  sarcasm  in  his  tone,  that  made  them 
feel  manifestly  uneasy  under  its  sting ;  however, 
they  strove  to  conceal  all  exasperation,  and  gave 
themselves  to  the  case  in  hand. 

Dexter  Brand  first  read  the  will  of  the  late  Mr. 
"Wells,  offering  it  in  evidence  of  all  the  debts  there 
were,  at  the  time  of  his  death,  outstanding  against 
the  estate.  He  then  called  on  the  widow  to  give 
up  as  much  of  her  knowledge  respecting  her  late 
husband's  liabilities  as  he  had,  in  life,  acquainted 
her  with.  She  readily  testified  to  her  complete 
knowledge  of  all  her  husband's  business  transac- 
tions, and  to  the  recollection  of  having  been  told 
by  him  on  his  death-bed,  that  as  all  his  debts  were 
provided  for  in  his  will,  he  felt  reconciled  to  know 
that  he  should  be  able  to  leave  her  an  abundant 
competence.  She  likewise  testified  to  her  know- 
ledge of  the  amount  of  his  property ;  and  added 
that  she  knew  what  of  right  belonged  to  her. 

Several  witnesses,  likewise,  were  called  on  by 
Mr.  Brand,  who  had  known  Mr.  Wells  for  many 
years ;  and  who  freely  testified  to  the  known  extent 

8* 


178  CAP  SHEAF. 

of  his  property,  his  few  debts,  and  the  belief  they 
entertained  of  his  widow's  being  left  with  a  large 
portion.  They  also  gave  in  several  items  of  infor- 
mation, which,  while  they  were  not  essential  parts 
of  the  testimony,  at  the  same  time  very  strongly 
corroborated  the  positions  taken  by  the  counsel  for 
the  widow.  At  this  point,  the  plaintiff  rested; 
though  she  claimed  the  privilege  of  introducing 
further  testimony,  if  circumstances  should  render 
it  necessary. 

The  other  side  called  their  witnesses.  Again  the 
will  was  read,  and  the  debts  therein  enumerated 
were  sworn  to  have  been  settled.  But  in  order  to 
make  out  their  case,  and  to  fortify  their  position, 
they  charged  that  debts  heretofore  unknown  were 
brought  against  the  estate  of  Mr.  Wells.  They 
swore  positively,  that  debts  of  magnitude  existed, 
of  which  he  had  made  no  mention  in  his  will,  and 
none  whatever,  either,  to  his  wife.  In  proof  of 
this,  evidences  of  speculation  in  sugar  lands  in  the 
West  Indies  were  exhibited,  by  which  it  was  made 
to  appear  that  Mr.  Wells  had  nearly  swamped  him- 
self in  trades  in  real  estate.  They  produced  notes 
of  hand,  drawn  by  him  in  payment  for  these  lands, 
and  endorsed  to  Senor  Loreto,  a  planter  of  wealth 
in  one  of  those  islands. 

Thus  far,  all  looked  well  for  their  case.  They 
seemed  to  have  abundantly  made  out  that  Mr. 


THE   POOR  SCHOLAR.  179 

Wells  died  with  a  falsehood  on  his  lips.  The  jury 
instinctively  looked  round  upon  Dexter  Brand,  to 
see  what  step  would  be  taken  to  relieve  his  client 
from  the  unpleasant  predicament  into  which  she 
was  thus  forced ;  but  they  witnessed  no  change  in 
his  features.  He  sat  in  his  chair  as  calm  as  a  sum- 
mer's morning.  He  asked  to  look  at  the  notes, — 
the  evidences  of  Mr.  Wells'  debts  in  question. 
They  were  handed  him  by  the  opposite  counsel. 
He  looked  at  them  a  moment  scrutinizingly,  and 
then  rose  slowly  from  his  chair  and  walked  into  an 
ante-room. 

Presently  he  returned.  This  time  he  was  not 
alone.  A  strange  gentleman  was  with  him.  The 
eyes  of  the  excited  spectators,  of  the  court  and  jury 
were  fastened  upon  him  and  his  companion. 

He  called  upon  the  stand  a  new  witness ;  the 
Senor  Loreto  himself,  to  whom  it  was  sworn  by  the 
defense  that  the  notes  were  endorsed.  He  stood 
before  the  court  and  was  sworn.  The  opposite 
counsel  made  an  effort  to  say  something;  but  it" 
would  have  been  difficult,  if  not  impossible,  to  tell 
what.  The  defendants  gazed  at  each  other;  then 
at  the  witness ;  and  then  at  each  other  again ;  as  if 
in  paroxysms  of  despair.  But  their  lips  were  seal- 
ed together.  The  notes  in  question  were  handed 
to  Senor  Loreto.  He  took  them  and  gave  them  a 
careful  examination.  Dexter  Brand  then  asked 


180         .  CAP  SHEAF. 

him  if  he  had  ever  seen  those  notes  before.  He 
answered  that  he  had  not !  He  was  asked  if  he 
knew  the  endorser.  He  had  never  heard  of  such  a 
man ;  and  never  had  had  dealings  with  a  man  of 
such  a  name. 

The  opposite  counsel  rose  in  his  seat ;  tried  to 
speak  ;  and  then  sat  down  again.  The  defendants 
again  looked  at  each  other  fiercely ;  gazed  at  their 
counsel  still  more  fiercely ;  and  then  betrayed  in 
their  countenances  the  fear  and  remorse  that  began 
to  work  upon  them.  This  witness  was  thoroughly 
examined  and  cross-examined.  But  nothing  further 
was  elicited,  that  shook  the  strength  of  his  main 
testimony. 

The  evidence  being  all  in,  the  young  lawyer  fol- 
lowed the  counsel  for  the  defense,  in  his  plea  for 
his  client,  unraveling  the  whole  affair,  and  assert- 
ing that  he  jiad  made  good  the  charges  of  which 
he  spoke.  Glancing  proudly  at  his  opponent,  he 
assured  him  that  he  now  and  hereafter  stood  fully 
responsible  for  the  statements  he  had  seen  fit  to 
make  at  an  early  stage  of  the  case ;  and  that  he 
was  ready  and  willing  to  abide  the  consequences. 
The  face  of  the  counsel  for  the  defense  betrayed 
the  manner  hi  which  the  cutting  irony  was  received. 

The  executors  of  the  will,  therefore,  stood  plain- 
ly convicted  of  forgery.  They  had  forged  these 
notes  themselves ;  produced  them  as  evidences  of 


THE  POOR  SCHOLAR.  181 

debt  against  the  estate  of  Mr.  Wells;  and  after- 
wards divided,  as  was  proved  abundantly,  the 
plunder  between  themselves.  Mr.  Wells  had  specu- 
lated in  West  India  property,  as  they  knew  ;  and 
had  had  business  with  Senor  Loreto ;  but  in  all 
these  speculations  he  had  been  eminently  successful, 
paying  for  everything  and  leaving  nothing  unpaid, 
— as  that  gentleman  himself  fully  testified.  The 
executors — who  had  been  confided  in  always  by 
the  deceased,  but  who  now  so  basely  betrayed  their 
trust, — were  convicted  and  condemned  already. 
And  Dexter  Brand — the  penniless  young  lawyer — 
had  done  all  this  himself !  Thus  early  did  he  give 
promise  of  his  after  reputation. 

The  property  of  the  faithless  executors  was  forth- 
with attached,  and  a  suit  to  recover  what  they  had 
embezzled,  instituted.  They  were  likewise  brought 
up  on  a  charge  of  forgery,  and  found  guilty.  Their 
sentence  was  soon  after  passed  upon  them,  and  they 
found  long  homes  in  the  penitentiary  for  their  base 
betrayal  of  the  rights  of  the  widow. 

Not  three  months  after  this  memorable 

event  in  the  life  and  legal  experience  of  Dexter 
Brand,  he  found  a  wife  in  the  same  person  in  whom 
he  had  before  found  only  a  fair  client.  He  was  at 
once  surrounded  by  troops  of  friends,  as  men  who 
have  newly  come  into  such  honors  always  are. 


182  CAP  SHEAF. 

One  fine  morning  in  Spring — it  might  have  been 
the  anniversary  of  the  day  of  his  dream — the 
young  advocate,  his  lovely  wife,  and  her  kind 
mother,  were  standing  in  the  room  of  the  old  hovel, 
where  he  once  labored  for  an  education.  He  had 
purposely  carried  them  there,  to  impress  them  the 
more  with  a  sense  of  his  early  trials  and  denials. 
The  bees  swarmed  about  the  windows  as  of  yore, 
and  the  vines  still  clung  affectionately  to  the  old 
building.  A  breath  of  air  blew  in,  and  stirred  the 
dust  of  years ;  so  that  it  became  long  bars  of  gold 
in  the  sunshine. 

"  Mr.  Brand,"  said  the  mother  of  his  wife,  in 
reply  to  his  allusion  to  the  mysterious  note  receiv- 
ed years  before,  while  dreaming  in  that  very  room 
— "  you  would  know  more  of  that,  I  suppose  ?" 

He  looked  at  her  a  moment  in  deep  amazement. 

"  I  will  break  the  seal  of  that  mystery,"  she 
continued.  "It  was  /,  who  wrote  that  note  and 
enclosed  that  bill." 

-  She  explained  that  she  was  an  early  and 
intimate  friend  of  his  mother,'  whom  she  had  pro- 
mised that  she  would  watch  over  her  son's  footsteps 
with  a  motherly  anxiety.  She  added  that  she  had  all 
along  supplied  him  with  money,  with  which  to  go  on 
with  his  education.  She  had  never  doubted  that 
it  would  all  be  repaid  to  her  at  some  time,  in  some 


THE  POOH  SCHOLAR.  183 

inexplicable  way.  Yet  she  had  never  thought  of 
that.  She  had  tried  only  to  fulfil  the  dying  request 
of  the  young  man's  mother. 

Dexter  Brand  was  overwhelmed  with  confusion 
and  gratitude.  He  bought  the  cottage  where  he 
had  first  begun  his  studies  and  ambition,  and  by 
the  side  of  it  was  not  long  afterwards  erected  a  fine 
country  mansion.  The  poor  scholar  had  reaped  a 
rich  reward  for  his  labor,  at  the  very  threshold  of 
life.  Honors  and  emoluments  came  in  thickly 
upon  him  afterwards. 


THE    VILLAGE    FUNERAL. 

I  HAD  been  sitting  in  ray  little  garret-study,  one 
bright  morning  in  June, — just  long  enough  to 
become  gradually  contented  with  the  thought  of 
making  an  in-door  day  of  it, — and  was  watching 
the  dancing  of  the  sunshine  among  the  glossy 
walnut-leaves  just  beyond  my  opened  window,  or 
chasing,  with  my  eyes,  the  little  whirligigs  that 
lifted  the  corners  of  my  manuscript  and  pirouetted 
recklessly  from  corner  to  corner  of  the  room,  when 
my  attention  was  suddenly  arrested  by  a  sound 
from  without.  I  listened  a  moment.  It  came 
again,  and  again. 

It  was  the  bell  of  the  village  church,  tolling  out 
its  melancholy  melodies. 

I  knew  at  once  it  was  tolling  for  a  funeral. 
There  was,  already,  too  much  to  tempt  me  out  of 
doors  that  morning,  and  this  was  an  invitation  I 
felt  least  able  to  resist ;  so  placing  my  hat  hur- 
riedly on  my  head,  I  started  off  for  the  church.  It 
gave  me  a  walk  of  a  mile,  to  reach  the  spot ;  but 


THE   VILLAGE   FUNERAL.  185 

that  mile  was  one  whose  wayside  was  beset  with, 
pure  pleasure. 

When  at  length  I  reached  the  green,  as  the  vil- 
lage common  was  called,  there  was  already  quite  a 
large  collection  about  the  church,  chiefly  men, 
however.  Some  stood  in  the  cool  shade  of  the 
maples,  conversing  in  low  tones  upon  the  event 
that  had  just  occurred.  Some  even  stretched  them- 
selves, at  a  distance,  upon  the  grass  ;  looking  up  at 
times  through  the  canopy  of  leaves  to  the  blue  sky 
beyond.  Some  paced  slowly  to  and  fro  before  the 
simple  little  church,  whose  front  was  embowered 
in  trees,  and  surrounded  with  a  carpet  of  freshest 
and  darkest  green. 

Presently  a  coffin,  draped  with  a  pall,  was  borne 
along  by  four  stout  men,  and  carried  within  the 
church.  As  soon  as  the  religious  exercises  were 
concluded,  the  body  was  borne  out  again,  and 
placed  upon  the  bier  that  stood  on  the  green  turf 
before  the  door.  The  coffin-lid  was  thrown  back, 
and  the  villagers  gathered  silently  about  it,  to  take 
a  last  look  at  the  pale  face  of  the  dead.  With  the 
rest,  I  walked  up  to  the  side  of  the  long,  narrow 
coffin,  and  looked  over  its  edge.  I  dared  not  meet 
those  motionless  features  with  a  full  look.  I  ven- 
tured only  a  glance,  for  I  always  dreaded  the  sight 
of  a  dead  face ;  so  ghastly,  so  expressionless,  so 
productive  of  an  unnatural  and  unhealthy  fear. 


186  CAP  SHEAF. 

Why  is  it  that  Death,  while  manifesting  itself  only 
by  silence  and  stiffness,  always  strikes  the  soul  of 
the  beholder  with  such  a  terror  ?  The  instant  my 
eyes  fell  upon  that  face,  I  started  involuntarily 
backward.  Without  knowing  it,  I  jostled  rudely 
those  behind  me.  What  my  gaze  met,  amazed  me 
fearfully. 

The  body  was  that  of  young  Mabel  Green. 

I  had  long  known  the  sweet  girl,  and  had  many 
reasons  for  believing  I  was  admitted  to  her  intimate 
friendship.  It  was  a  shocking  surprise  to  me  to 
learn  that  she  was  dead ;  I  did  not  even  know  that 
she  had  been  ailing.  Her  prospects  for  a  long  and 
happy  life  I  had  considered  quite  as  promising  as 
my  own.  I  had  not  thought  of  her  dying.  I 
should  as  soon  have  dreamed  of  dying  myself;  and 
that  is  an  event  few  of  us  are  prone  to  speculate 
upon. 

When,  at  length,  the  lid  was  shut  down  again, 
and  the  mournful  procession  wound  along  at  a  slow 
and  solemn  pace  toward  the  quiet  place  of  sepul- 
ture, I  turned  to  make  inquiries  relative  to  the 
cause  and  manner  of  the  event,  whose  suddenness 
had  overwhelmed  me  with  grief.  It  was  a  brief 
story,  and  a  touching  one.  It  smote  my  heart,  as 
with  a  rod  of  thorn,  to  listen  to  it. 

Mabel  Green  lived  in  the  village,  with  an  aunt, 
who  likewise  was  bringing  up  an  only  daughter  of 


THE  VILLAGE   FUNEEAL.  187 

her  own, — named  Euth  Finley.  Mrs.  Finley  had 
lost  her  husband  some  years  before,  and  had  never 
since  married.  She  retired  within  her  own  self 
chiefly,  eager  only  to  lavish  all  her  devotion  upon 
her  child.  As  soon  as  Mabel's  mother — who  was 
Mrs.  Finley's  sister — died,  Mrs.  Finley  proposed  to 
Mr.  Greene  to  assume  the  guardianship  of  his 
daughter,  and  to  give  her  the  same  privileges  with 
her  own  child.  She  promised  to  lavish  her  affec- 
tions equally  upon  both  of  them.  To  this  proposal 
Mabel's  father  assented  very  willingly.  Accord- 
ingly, the  two  girls  were  at  once  placed  together ; 
and  as  affectionate  as  twin-sisters  seemed  they  in  a 
very  brief  time.  Both  attended  the  same  school ; 
both  read  the  same  books,  at  the  same  time  ;  both 
pursued  the  same  studies;  and  both  seemed  to 
make  similar  progress.  Every  one  in  the  village 
remarked  their  affectionate  intimacy.  There  was 
not  one  in  that  rustic  little  church,  who  did  not 
listen  more  intently,  each  Sunday,  to  catch  the 
mingled  notes  of  the  music-loving  cousins. 

Both  were  lovely.  Both  were  accounted  perfect 
— if  there  be  such  a  thing  as  human  perfection. 
Both  had  their  friends — and  they  comprised  pretty 
much  the  whole  of  the  quiet  little  village.  Both 
had  their  admirers — admirers,  ardent  and  unwaver- 
ing. If  there  was  a  difference,  however,  Mabel 
was  the  belk  of  the  village ;  and  it  was  the  pleas- 


188  CAP  SHEAF. 

antest  sight  in  all  the  world,  to  see  how  gracefully 
her  cousin  admitted  it.  Not  scornfully,  nor  reluc- 
tantly, as  if  she  were  unwilling  to  see  merit  or 
attraction  in  any  one  save  her  own  self;  but  with 
a  hearty  sincerity,  that  savored  of  nothing  so 
much  as  of  truth,  and  love,  and  abiding  affection. 

There  came  a  young  man  into  the  village, 

about  twenty  months  before  the  afflictive  event  of 
her  death,  named  Granville  Eeed.  He  came  to 
pay  his  attentions  to  Ruth,  the  cousin  of  Mabel ; 
and  Ruth  had  heard  of  his  intentions,  before  he 
had  even  addressed  her.  He  was  from  a  distant 
city  in  the  far  West,  and  by  occupation  a  merchant. 
It  was  with  a  fluttering  heart  that  Ruth  received 
him  for  the  first  time  in  the  parlor  of  their  snug 
cottage,  for  she  had  quite  as  much  anxiety  to  know 
how  he  would  appear  to  her,  as  had  he  to  know 
how  she  would  appear  to  him.  It  seemed  that 
each  was  highly  pleased  with  the  other ;  more  so 
than  could  have  been  naturally  expected. 

They  sat  for  a  long  time  together,  when  Ruth 
began  to  be  concerned  that  her  cousin  Mabel  did 
not  make  her  appearance.  She  wondered  why  it 
was;  and  wondering,  she  excused  herself  long 
enough  to  go  in  quest  of  her.  In  a  few  moments 
she  returned,  bringing  her  into  the  presence  of  Mr. 
Granville  Reed.  But  if  Ruth  had  begun  to  be 
favorably  impressed  with  the  young  man,  it  was 


THE   VILLAGE   FUNERAL.  189 

the  most  unfortunate  step  she  could  have  taken  to 
introduce  him  to  her  cousin  Mabel.  The  young 
merchant  was  smitten  with  her,  at  first  sight ! 

Poor  Kuth !  unwittingly  she  threw  away  her 
opportunity !  But  she  had  no  heart  of  envy. 
There  was  not  a  single  thread  of  jealousy  running 
through  all  her  generous  and  loving  nature.  If 
she  had  once  thought  of  such  a  thing  as  Mabel's 
being  at  all  in  the  way  of  her  own  purposes,  at  least 
she  did  not  act  upon  the  thought. 

Time  and  the  suit  passed  along.  Mabel  gave 
herself  to  be  the  bride  of  the  young  merchant. 
Her  father  had  written  favorably  respecting  him,  in 
answer  to  inquiries  she  had  herself  made  of  him ; 
and  her  aunt  had  acquiesced  in  her  own  choice. 
Ruth — poor  Ruth ! — she  murmured  not ;  she  only 
prayed  that  "  Cousin  Mabel "  might  be  perfectly 
happy  in  her  new  estate.  Anything  but  envy  felt 
she,  to  see  Mabel  so  near  her  true  happiness. 

The  day  of  the  marriage  ceremony  at  last  came. 
It  was  a  lovely  morning  in  the  month  of  May. 
The  leaves  were  growing  each  day  a  deeper  green ; 
and  the  grass-sprouts  were  thickening  all  over  the 
sward.  Bees  drove  a-field,  in  quest  of  the  early 
flower.  Daisies  were  plentifully  sprinkled  over  the 
grass,  and  stood  lifting  their  mild  eyes  through 
every  vale  for  miles  about  the  quiet  village.  There 
was  the  music  of  the  birds  in  the  tree-boughs  over- 


190  CAP  SHEAF. 

head ;  and  there  was  the  soft  sighing  of  the  wind- 
spirits,  as  they  swept  past  one's  ears.  There  was  a 
genial  warmth,  too,  in  the  mellow  sunshine ;  it 
thawed  out  the  frozen  feelings  of  the  heart,  and  set 
them  in  calm,  happy,  and  healthful  action  again. 
By-and-by,  the  carriage  in  which  rode  the  be- 
trothed couple  rolled  along  the  street  towards  the 
church.  All  around  the  church  door  were  crowds. 
Old  and  young  turned  out  in  the  seductive  sun- 
shine, to  get  a  fair  sight  of  the  happy  pair.  They 
elbowed  and  pushed  each  other  excessively,  as  the 
carriage  rolled  over  the  soft  sward  to  the  church 
door.  They  were  determined  to  unite  their  wishes 
and  their  prayers  for  the  happiness  of  the  expect- 
ant bride. 

-  They  stood  before  the  altar — the  bride- 
groom with  his  bride.  If  he  was  accounted  hand- 
some,— there  be  those  who  are  foolish  enough  to 
call  men  "handsome," — she  was  a  picture  of  love- 
liness. She  stood  by  the  side  of  her  bethrothed, 
clad  in  a  garment  of  unsullied  white.  Her  hair, 
which  was  as  black  as  a  raven's  wing,  was  evenly 
parted  upon  the  top  of  her  head,  and  brushed 
smoothly  down  over  her  ears.  Not  a  single  ringlet 
was  suffered  to  straggle  from  its  fastening,  to  betray 
the  wealth  that  was  modestly  and  tastefully  secreted. 
Her  forehead  was  as  white  as  Parian  marble.  Be- 
neath her  dark  brows  gleamed  two  eyes,  of  a  deep 


THE  VILLAGE  FUNERAL.  191 

blue,  and  full  of  ardent  and  earnest  expression.  A 
smile  of  happiness  played  quietly  about  her  finely 
shaped  mouth,  and  lit  up  all  her  features.  It  even 
added  a  lustre  to  the  eyes  that  almost  seemed  to 
speak.  It  made  all  involuntarily  envy  the  happi- 
ness that  seemed  hers. 

"  Wilt  thou  have  this  man  for  thy  wedded  hus- 
band ?"  interrogated  the  patriarchal-looking  man, 
looking  into  the  enkindled  eyes  of  Mabel. 

"  I  will,"  was  her  musical  and  soft  response. 

Then  they  became — by  the  authority  of  the  good 
man— man  and  wife.  He  said  to  them  his  blessing, 
and  they  pressed  his  kind  hand,  and  again  went 
away  in  their  carriage.  All  that  day  they  received 
the  congratulatory  visits  of  their  friends — whoever 
they  might  be,  throughout  the  village.  The  people 
flocked  in  to  say  to  Mabel  their  parting  words,  and 
to  offer  kind  wishes, — and  then  bade  her  farewell. 

Poor  Kuth's  sky  was  well  nigh  desolate.  The 
fires  that  had  so  long  been  burning  on  the  hearth- 
stone of  her  heart,  were  about  to  go  out — to  go 
out,  perhaps,  for  ever.  And  she  was  saddened 
with  the  thought.  The  glistening  tears  struggled 
to  her  eyes,  and  insisted  on  rolling  out  from  beneath 
the  lids  down  her  pallor-stricken  cheeks.  Her 
pretty  lips  quivered  whenever  she  would  speak ; 
and  her  syllables  were  broken  into  meaningless 


192  CAP  SHEAF. 

fragments  when  she  would  have  made  words  with 
them. 

In  a  few  short  hours,  the  bridegroom  had 

taken  his  bride  away  from  the  home  she  so  much 
adorned,  on  her  journey  to  the  distant  home  he  had 
provided  for  her.  What  a  blank  was  left  in  that 
hitherto  contented  cottage  !  But  Mabel  loved 
Granville  Eeed,  and  for  him  had  consented  to  give 
up  everything  with  which  the  world  had  hitherto 

allured  her  heart. 

_ 

I  said  it  was  to  one  of  the  Western  cities  she 
went  with  her  husband.  For  some  time  her  life 
there  was  as  happy  as  it  well  could  be.  -  She  tried  to 
bury  all  regret  at  separation  from  her  friends,  in 
devotion  to  her  husband.  And  she  lived  to  know 
and  to  feel,  that  this  devotion  of  hers  was .  amply 
rewarded.  The  wealth  of  her  husband's  soul  she 
felt  to  be  all  hers,  even  as  hers  was  his. 

In  business  he  was  prospered,  even  beyond  his 
expectation.  Profits  flowed  abundantly  into  his 
coffers,  and  he  had  full  reason  to  think  that  his 
energy  and  enterprise,  if  unfalteringly  persisted  in, 
would  finally  secure  a  liberal  remuneration.  And 
after  that — ah !  how  many  schemers  there  be  in  the 
world,  who  are  always  prating  of  what  they  will 
do  after  they  have  amassed  their  fortunes, — in  other 
words,  after  all  incentive  to  do,  shall  have  been 
taken  away  from  them ! 


THE   VILLAGE   FUNEEAL.  193 

But  human    calculations    are   as   frail   as 

human  hopes.  There  is  no  more  strength  in  either 
than  in  ropes  of  sand.  The  tempter  came,  and 
with  him  came  the  destroyer.  There  was  a  gang 
of  counterfeiters  who  had  been  for  some  time 
operating  in  the  vicinity  of  Granville  Eeed.  They 
were,  professedly,  gentlemen  ;  but  gentlemen  only 
in  disguise.  That  disguise  was  but  the  worse  for 
the  young  merchant.  An  influence  that  was 
openly  vicious,  he  would  have  confronted  with 
boldness ;  but  an  influence  that  presented  itself  to 
him  under  a  bland  and  pleasing  exterior,  he  was 
not  strong  enough  to  withstand. 

Little  by  little  he  yielded  to  the  solicita- 
tions of  the  leader  of  the  foul  nest.  He  loaned 
him  money  at  first,  to  assist  him  in  his  enterprise. 
Then  he  advanced  a  certain  amount — a  triflingly 
larger  sum — on  his  own  account,  in  the  business. 
It  was  made  to  appear  to  him  a  business  that  pro- 
mised almost  illimitable  profits,  while  his  risk 
would  be  just  nothing  at  all.  The  others  would  be 
the  ones  to  shoulder  all  the  dangers  and  responsi- 
bilities, while  he — Granville  Eeed — should  punc- 
tually receive  his  proportion  of  the  profits. 

He  was  duped  —  entirely  deceived.  His  desire 
for  wealth  grew  so  fast  and  so  strong,  that  it  out- 
ran his  honesty  and  his  better  judgment  altogether. 
He  wanted  nothing  so  much  as  he  desired  money. 

9 


194  CAP  SHEAF. 

He  thought  if  that  were  once  obtained,  he  possessed 
everything  that  was  on  earth  desirable.  Even  his 
affection  for  his  youthful  bride  deadened,  in  a 
degree ;  that  is,  it  was  superseded  by  a  stronger 
affection  for  gold. 

What  a  curse  was  that  to  him !  Step  by  step, 
he  went  along  in  the  unlawful  path  they  had  mark- 
ed out.  His  profits  from  counterfeiting  grew  per- 
ceptibly larger  every  day,  until  at  length  he  deter- 
mined to  relinquish  his  legitimate  business  almost 
altogether.  Intrusting  it  to  the  hands  of  one  or 
two  hired  assistants,  he  left  his  family — on  pretense 
of  urgent  business  abroad  over  the  State — and  be- 
came a  traveling  counterfeiter. 

For  weeks  he  sometimes  stayed  away  from  his 
home.  His  wife  grew  anxious  for  him;  but  she 
was  made  to  believe  that  he  was  absent  on  neces- 
sary business — for  her  good  as  well  as  his  own. 
Her  heart  was  much  worried ;  but  what  would  that 
avail  her?  She  must  learn  to  bear  whatever  is 
imposed  upon  her.  She  must  learn  to  kiss  the 
hand  that  smites  her.  Her  heart  belongs  to  an- 
other ;  if  that  other  one  will  chaffer  with  its  wealth, 
and  trade  it  away  whenever  it  is  not  essential  for 
his  assistance — why,  then,  she  must  grow  resigned, 
though  she  grow  miserable  with  every  effort  to 
appear  so!  Such  is  the  fate  of  many  a  poor, 
trusting  girl's  heart. 


THE   VILLAGE    FUNERAL.  195 

Bj-and-by — it  was  certain  to  come  at  some  time 
— came  the  blow,  the  crushing  blow,  upon  her 
devoted  heart.  The  intelligence  was  brought  her 
that  her  husband  had  been  arrested,  many  hundred 
miles  away  from  home,  on  a  charge  of  being  en- 
gaged with  a  band  of  counterfeiters  ! 

Then  came  the  public  trial.  It  was  in  a 

distant  County  in  the  State,  and  Mabel  summoned 
the  courage  and  energy  to  attend  upon  it.  Her 
devoted  affection  forsook  her  not  even  then. 

When  she  reached  the  place  where  the  court  was 
in  session,  she  found  a  vast  concourse  of  people 
about  the  village  street,  while  all  the  avenues  to 
the  court-house  were  literally  choked  up.  Yet  her 
perseverance,  as  well  as  her  appearance,  served  to 
gain  her  a  comparatively  easy  entrance.  She  found 
her  way  into  the  court-room.  It  was  blocked  up 
with  deeply  interested  spectators.  There  was  not  a 
murmur  on  the  lips  of  one  of  them.  So  silent  was 
the  room,  it  startled  her.  But  she  pushed  on. 
Men,  on  seeing  her  look  so  wildly,  voluntarily 
made  a  passage  for  her  slight  form,  and  she  found 
herself  within  the  bar-railing.  Turning  herself 
about  from  this  point,  she  ran  her  eyes  over  the 
assembled  people. 

It  was  but  a  moment's  work.  Her  gaze  fastened 
itself  on  the  row  of  prisoners,  railed  in  within  the 
dock,  and  guarded  by  officers  with  their  insignia 


196  CAP   SHEAF. 

of  office.  From  one  to  another  it  glanced,  taking 
in  the  entire  person  with  each  look,  until  it  finally 
fell  upon  the  countenance  of  her  husband.  He  was 
already  gazing  at  her,  with  an  appearance  of  sto- 
icism that  cost  him  an  almost  miraculous  effort. 

Uttering  a  wild  shriek — she  heeded  neither  the 
place  nor  the  presence — she  bounded  to  embrace 
him.  At  the  dock-rail,  she  was  kept  back ;  but 
her  guilty  husband,  whose  heart  was  already  pierced 
with  thorns,  leaned  hurriedly  forward,  and  caught 
in  his  hands  the  embrace  that  was  thrown  for  him. 

Oh !  if  his  heart  did  not  bleed  in  that  mo- 
ment of  keen  anguish,  it  surely  should  have  done 
so! 

She  was  forcibly  taken  from  him  by  the  officers 
and  spectators.  When  they  finally  carried  her 
away  to  a  room  in  the  village  inn,  she  was" wholly 
insensible  to  the  "wretchedness  that  had  so  cruelly 
hemmed  her  in. 

In  due  time  she  was  restored  to  consciousness 
7a 

again.  Her  first  thought  was  for  her  husband. 
Her  first  inquiry  was  for  him.  But  she  was  not 
permitted  to  see  him  then.  She  could  not  be  re- 
moved from  her  room.  When  next,  however,  she 
did  see  him,  it  was  within  the  grated  bars  of  a  dis- 
mal prison.  He  had  been  sentenced  to  that  place, 
there  to  expiate  the  wrong  he  had  done  society 
in  his  contempt  of  the  laws. 


THE  VILLAGE   FUNEKAL.  197 

She  laid  her  head  upon  his  lap,  and  said  she 
could  not  live.  She  told  him  how  deep  had  been 
her  love  for  him — how  strong,  how  abiding.  And 
then  the  unwelcome  reflection  chased  close  upon 
the  words — how  wretched  had  proved  the  return 
of  that  affection.  She  said  again,  and  yet  again, 
that  she  could  not  live ;  there  was  nothing  now  for 
her  to  live  for.  And  while  accents  of  undying 
love,  and  confessions'  of  never-ending  affection, 
were  yet  fresh  upon  her  pale,  thin  lips,  she  asked 
Granville  at  least  to  honor  her  memory,  by  reform- 
ing his  life ;  and  then  she  should  die  happy. 

He  promised — while  deep  sobs  convulsed  him — 
that  he  would  at  once  reform ;  that  he  would  never 
err  again.  But  he  begged, — he  prayed, — that  she 
would  still  cling  to  life  with  all  her  old  desires ; 
that  she  would  continue  to  live  upon  the  hope  of 
his  thorough  reformation ! 

He  asked  too  much.  The  treasure  that  had 

been  given  him  on  trust,  he  had  first  neglected,  and 
then  abused.  Mabel  died  in  his  arms.  Her  last 
•  look  was  upon  him.  Her  last  syllable  was  of  his 
name. 

By  his  own  direction,  she  was  sent  back — a 
corpse — to  her  old  village  home.  It  was  buried 
the  next  morning  after  its  arrival,  and  on  that 
beautiful  morning  in  June  of  which  I  have  spoken. 


198  CAP  SHEAF. 

How  strangely  it  all  came  over  me !  I 

had,  in  a  moment,  a  thousand  thoughts  rushing 
through  my  brain.  I  wept  for  poor  Euth — for  her 
who  had  so  accidentally  been  spared  the  severe 
trial  of  the  dead  Mabel.  I  could  hardly  believe 
this  was  all  that  was  left  of  my  dear  friend  Mabel 
Greene ;  and  her  husband-murderer,  at  that  mo- 
ment, a  convict  in  a  "Western  Penitentiary. 

It  seemed  more  a  dream  than  a  reality. 


TEACKS    IN    THE    SNOW. 

AN  humble  roof,  laden  with  green  and  brown 
mosses,  raised  its  modest  height  in  a  quiet 
valley. 

There  were  no  peaks  to  its  gables,  nor  lattices  to 
its  windows ;  for  the  windows  were  few,  and  the 
gables  numbered  still  less.  Only  a  bunch  of  dried 
and  lifeless  vines  nestled  about  the  casements,  and 
clung  protectingly  to  the  low  eaves. 

Poverty  brooded  in  that  little  home- valley. 

Poverty  and  Winter ! — Alas,  what  relentless 
companions  and  friends ! 

Yet  had  want  not  driven  out  all  love  for  the 
Beautiful  from  the  chilled  hearts  of  the  indwellers ; 
neither  had  neglect  and  scorn  quite  withered  all  the 
leaves  of  the  midsummer  sympathies. 

There  was  a  look  of  comfort,  still  warm 

upon  the  cold  lips  of  Winter,  lingering  about  the 
door-yard.  Though  the  curl  of  the  cottage  smoke 
was  as  thin  as  a  gossamer-cloud,  yet  it  betokened 
warmth,  and  cheerfulness,  and  living  gratitude 


200  CAP  SHEAF. 

within.  If  the  remorseless  wind  broke  over  the 
edge  of  the  valley -heights,  and  piped  shrilly  at  the 
crannies  and  key-holes  of  the  doors,  and  blew  chill 
gusts  without  number  down  the  chimney, — still  it 
seemed  harmless  in  its  cruel  onsets,  and  its  loudest 
shrieks  only  died  away  at  length  into  melodious 
and  dreamy  lullabies. 

A  spirit  of  warmth  was  within  and  around  that 
little  dwelling  in  the  valley,-  that  no  cold  could 
ever  freeze ;  a  look  of  comfort,  that  no  fierceness 
of  the  elements  could  abash  and  drive  away ;  a 
glow  of  pure,  ever-living  sympathy,  that  would 
melt  away  all  snows,  of  all  depths. 

The  far-off  village  clock  sounded  the  hour  of 

nine  over  the  valley  walls,  on  the  night  of  the  last 
day  of  the -year.  To  many,  these  voices  from  the 
brazen-throated  bell  were  full  of  joyful  music.  To 
many,  they  were  the  heralds  of  thicker  pleasures 
for  the  coming  year.  Yet  to  many' more, — oh,  how 
many  more  everywhere! — were  they  dismal  pre- 
monitors  of  fast-coming  trials,  and  wants,  and  sore 
perplexities ! 

How  could  these  bell-strokes  ring  the  same  music 
for  all  the  hearts  within  its  reach  ?  The  audible  cir- 
cuit they  run,  hemmed  in  other  hearts  than  those  th.it 
beat  with  unabated  happiness.  Within  that  circle, 
on  this  last  night  of  the  worn  and  weary  old  year, 
grim  fears  stalked  in  and  sat  down  in  the  corners 


TRACKS  IN  THE  SNOW.  201 

of  many  home-hearths;  and  gaunt  and  greedy 
spectres  held  out  their  skinny  hands  for  an  embrace 
with  many  a  widow  and  her  sad-hearted  children. 

Just  at  the  moment  these  nine  clanging  strokes 
of  the  bell  fell  on  the  ear  of  the  Widow  Russell, 
she  looked  wildly  about  the  room  in  which  she  sat, 
and  with  an  involuntary  shudder  drew  nearer  the 
flickering  fire. 

"  Are  you  cold;  mother  ?"  asked  a  young 

girl,  whose  voice  was  as  musical  as  the  falling  of 
crystal  waters. 

"No  child;  but " 

The  reply  was  not  finished. 

"Hark,  mother  !  Hear  it  snow  /"  said  the  child, 
— herself  of  not  more  than  nine  years.  "  Hear  it 
blow  against  the  window-panes  !" 

—  The  mother  drew  her  offspring  nearer  to 
her,  and  pressed  her  head  into  her  lap. 

"  Will  the  ground  be  covered  by  the  morning, 
mother?"  pursued  the  child,  half  raising  her  head, 
and  gazing  wonderingly  into  the  expiring  fire- 
flames. — "  Will  every  thing  be  white, — as  white  as 
the  walls,  or  as  the  sheets  ?" 

"Very  likely,  my  dear  child,"  answered  the 
widow ;  but  as  she  spoke,  she  shuddered  again. 

"Does,  the  thought  of  the  snow  make  you  co?o?, 
mother'?"  continued  the  child.  "Can't  you  bear 


'  202  CAP  SHEAF. 

to  think  of  the  white  snow  falling  so  still  all  through 
the  night,  when  you  know  it  won't  fall  on  us  ?" 

"  Perhaps  I  shudder  at  my  fears,  child,"  replied 
the  mother. 

"  Fears  ?" 

«  Yes, — but  I  should  not  tell  you.  You  should 
not  know,  sweet  Ruth." 

"What  fears?"  persisted  little  Ruth,  now  gazing 
with  an  expression  of  sweet  earnestness  into  her 
parent's  face. 

At  that  moment,  a  hot  tear  dropped  from 

the  widow's  eyelid.  It  fell  full  upon  the  unstained 
cheek  of  the  angel-child. 

"  Mother, — mother, — what  fears  ?"  now  cried  the 
trembling  Ruth. 

"We  are  poor!"  answered  the  woman;  and  at 
these  words  the  tears  fell  in  rain. 

"  Poor  ?  Is  that  all  the  reason  why  you  cry,  my 
mother  ?" 

"  Heaven  bless  you,  child,  and  keep  your  heart 
ever  as  free  as  it  is  now !"  cried  the  Widow  Rus- 
sell. "  You  know  nothing  yet,  Ruth,  of  the  trials 
of  poverty.  Every  New  Year's  eve,  my  condition 
conies  up  to  me  more  forcibly,  and  I  feel  saddened. 
These  last  nights  of  the  year,  child,  have  become 
to  me  so  many  anniversaries  of  my  poverty.  I 
must  keep  them  all  sacredly.  Indeed,  I  feel  that  I 


TRACKS   IN   THE   SNOW.  203 

must.  I  see  nothing  now  before  me,  child,  but 
want, — no,  nothing  but  want!" 

"Mother! — dear  mother !"  again  plead  the  girl 
affectionately  with  her. 

"  But  you  besought  me  to  tell  you  all  this,  Ruth ; 
and  perhaps  it  is  as  well  that  you  hear  it  now.  Out 
of  the  work  I  can  do  the  coming  winter,  I  can  just 
make  out  to  live.  But  I  am  sadly  in  arrears  for 
my  rent ;  and  to-morrow  morning,  I  must  pay  the 
last  quarter's,  or  leave  the  house!" 

"  Where  should  we  go,  mother  ?  You  can't 
leave  the  house  !  You  hav'nt  anywhere  to  go  /" — 
innocently  broke  in  Euth. 

"  Yes,  child,"  she  replied,  calmly. 

"But  where?  where,  dear  mother?  There  isn't 
a  vacant  house  for  us  in  all  the  village !" 

"But  that  doesn't  enter  the  heart  of  the  landlord 
I  owe,"  answered  the  quite  disheartened  widow. 
"  Whether  we  have  a  shelter  or  not,  it  matters  little 
with  him.  It  is  justice  for  him  to  turn  us  out  of 
doors,  if  he  sees  fit,  at  such  a  time  in  the  year, 
but " 

Her  heart  swelled.  At  last  it  overflowed. 

She  could  not  go  through  the  sentence  she  had 
begun. 

The  tears  ran  like  rain  down  her  heated  cheeks, 
and  she  folded  her  child  still  more  tightly  within 
her  arms  ; — as  if  the  deepest  cause  of  her  anxiety 


204  CAP   SHEAF. 

were,  after  all,  but  the  truest  source  of  her  conso- 
lation. 

She  had  no  money,  and  she  sank  beneath  the 
load  of  her  little  debt.  Small  as  it  was,  it  was  full 
as  heavy  as  the  huge  millstones  that  drag  down 
so  many,  stronger, — far  stronger  than  she. 

She  saw  but  a  narrow  means  of  support,  through 
the  long  snows  that  were  coming.  Her  oil-cruse 
was  well-nigh  exhausted,  and  the  meal  was  but 
scanty  upon  the  bottom  of  her  barrel. — Yet  these 
would  insure  herself  and  Euth  against  absolute 
starvation. 

She  had  a  wood-pile  high  enough  to  melt  away 
all  the  frost-work  from  her  panes,  and  to  drive  out 
all  the  numbness  from  her  fingers,  and  the  dullness 
from  her  heart. — But  the  rent  was  unpaid  !  On  the 
morrow  she  must  meet  that  debt, — or  she  was  a 
beggar ! 

Poor  woman,    indeed !      How   could    she 

help  pressing  her  youngling  to   her  breast,  and 
shedding  burning  tears  of  undivided  sorrow  ! 

The  fire  went  out  upon  the  hearth,  and,  with  her 
child's  head  still  close  to  her  bosom,  she  prayed 
Heaven — silently  and  fervently — to  "temper  the 
wind  to  the  shorn  lamb." 

-  Thank  God  devoutly !  Even  such  silent 
prayers, — that  do  not  reach  so  much  as  the  lips  of 
the  poor,  but  only  ascend  like  fragrant  incense  from 


TEACKS   IN   THE   SNOW.  205 

the  altars  of  their  hearts, — even  such  prayers  are 
heard  ! — and  they  go  not  always  unanswered. 

And  as  if  to  soothe  her  heart  with  thoughts  of 
those  other  pale-faced  ones  who  have  suffered  be- 
fore her,  she  began  a  plaintive  melody  with  her 
tremulous  voice,  and  sang  the  child  to  a  sweet 
sleep.  And  these  were  the  words  "of  her  melody : — 

The  moon  rode  high  in  a  cloudless  sky, 

On  the  last  night  of  the  year, — 
Flinging  off  rays  from  her  silver  shield 
Far  over  a  pure  and  snow-white  field, 
Where  the  squadron  winds  both  charged  and  wheeled, 

And  coursed  ou  their  circuit  drear. 

The  moon  was  bright, — yet  there  gleamed  a  light 

Through  a  distant  latticed  pane, — 
Burning — burning  all  brightly  awhile, 
Then  fading  away  like  a  dying  smile, 
As  if  the  moon  could  its  gleam  beguile, — 

Then  steadily  blazing  again. 

In  a  cabined  room,  where  a  cloud  of  gloom 

Half  stifled  all  the  air, 
Sat  a  pallid  woman  beside  a  child, 
And  while  she  kept  stitching,  she  faintly  smiled 
On  the  upturned  face, — so  meek,  and  so  mild — 

As  it  were  some  angel-face  there. 

The  work  must  be  done  by  the  morrow's  sun  1 — 

Who  knoweth  it  better  than  she  ? 
So  her  needle  she  plies  with  a  sudden  start, 
In  the  hope  to  but  finish  her  weary  part, — 
And  a  pang  she  feels  in  her  widowed  heart, 

Of  the  sharpest  misery  ! 


306  CAP  SHEAF. 

The  angel-child  hath  once  more  smiled 

In  the  face  of  her  mother  dear, 
And  her  arms  are  thrown  up  for  a  close  embrace, — 
As  if  she,  poor  child  ! — could  for  once  efface 
The  line  on  the  heart  that  is  left  by  the  trace 

Of  a  burning — burning  tear. 

By  the  morrow's  sun  the  work  was  done ; 

And  through  the  latticed  pane 
There  was  streaming  a  single  golden  ray 
Across  the  pallet  where  they  yet  lay  :— 
Mother  and  child  had  passed  away 

From  the  night  to  day  again ! 

All  through  that  long  night  they  slept, — 

mother  and  child  ;  slept  as  sweetly  as  those  whose 
beds  were  of  down,  and  whose  curtain-folds  were  of 
damask.  Their  rest  was  as  untroubled  as  the  rest 
of  the  rich,  whose  luxuries  are  often  no  luxuries  to 
them. 

Dreams  quite  as  rosy-tinted  wreathed  themselves 
about  their  pillows,  as  sailed  on  the  still  night-air 
to  the  heads  of  those  less  troubled  than  they. 
Cares  for  the  time  they  forgot.  Out  from  the  thral- 
dom of  anxiety  they  temporarily  stole,  into  the 
airiness  of  the  beautiful  and  the  unreal.  Yet  there 
was  no  lack  of  reality  in  it  all  to  them.  They 
basked  and  breathed  in  the  sunshine  of  the  warmest 
hopes  and  fancies. 

All  night  long, — while  they  slept,  and  while  they 
dreamed, — the  feathery  snow  was  silently  falling. 
All  the  night  through,  it  sifted  and  sifted,  without 


TKACKS  IN  THE   SNOW.  207 

so  much  noise  as  that  of  an  airy  sprite's  footfall. 
All  through  those  leaden,  slow-motioned  hours,  it 
came  sailing — sailing, — dancing  and  reeling, — fly- 
ing and  falling, — sifting  and  falling. 

It  lay  spread  out  on  the  walk,  and  quite  up  to 
the  sill  of  the  humble  door.  It  capped  all  the  post- 
tops  with  white,  as  if  they  were  gay  hussars  in 
costume  for  a  masquerade.  It  piled  itself  up  slowly 
in  long  and  narrow  lines  along  the  fence,  and  lay 
packed  in  a  little  drift  against  the  door.  It  flung 
over  the  fruit-trees  in  the  garden  a  radiance  as  airy 
and  pure,  as  if  the  unseen  spirits  of  the  storm 
would  thus  decorate  the  branches,  and  flower  the 
sprays,  ere  they  vanished  again  in  their  slight 
chariots  of  the  wind-gusts.  It  covered  the  length 
and  breadth  of  the  little  roof,  as  with  an  outspread 
blanket.  It  had  kept  falling — falling,  and  made 
long  hillocks  on  each  log  of  wood  that  was  piled 
without  the  door. 

The  morning  of  the  New  Year  dawned  as  clear 
as  when  first  the  word  went  forth — '  Let  there  be 
light  r  The  earth  was  hushed  like  a  sleeper. 
Slowly  the  gray  streaks  and  streamers  vanished  in 
the  eastern  sky,  and  steadily  the  long,  blood-red 
lines  of  morning  came  up  above  the  rim  of  the 
horizon. 

What  a  vision  met  tHe  eyes  of  the  mother 

and  her  child ! 


208  CAP  SHEAF. 

The  mother's  countenance  grew  saddened,  for 
her  forebodings  were  many.  But  little  Euth's 
eyes  sparkled  and  dilated  with  pleasure. 

She  flew  impatiently  to  the  window,  momentarily 
oblivious  of  the  cold  fate,  that,  like  this  same  chilling 
snow,  was  fast  walling  itself  about  her  young  heart. 

There  were  no  ~words,  wherewith  her  childish 
ecstasy  could  be  limited.  Her  own  spirit,  pure  as 
the  unsullied  and  untrampled  snow  itself,  reveled 
gayly  in  the  scene,  bathing  itself  in  the  spotless 
fancies  that  rose  like  heavenly  mists  from  it. 

vThe  entire  surface  of  the  snow  appeared  to  her 
unbroken.  All  was  rounded,  and  faultless,  and 
pure.  Her  little  heart  was  full  to  overflow  with 
joy,  and  she  danced  in  the  thought  of  the  bright 
New  Year. 

Her  mother  was  at  her  side ;  but  with  what  far 
different  feelings  ]  To  and  fro  her  eyes  ran  over 
the  fearful  picture, — fearful  only  to  such  as  she — 
and  she  shuddered  in  spite  of  herself. 

Just  as  she  shuddered  the  night  before ! 

"  Tracks!  There  are  tracks!'1'1  suddenly  exclaim- 
ed Euth,  pointing  in  the  direction  in  which  they 
were  to  be  seen.  ""Who  came  here,  last  night, 
mother  ?" 

She  caught  a  hurried  sight  of  them.  She  traced 
them  to  the  gate— up  the  walk— quite  to  the  little 
door. 


TRACKS  IN  THE   SNOW.  209 

- 

Determined  to  know  the  whole  of  such  a  mys- 
tery, she  went  to  the  door  and  opened  it. 

-  It  was  already  unfastened  ! 

There,  at  the  door-sill,  the  mysterious  tracks  had 
stopped.  And  a  second  time  they  were  imprinted 
upon  the  walk,  as  by  the  return  of  the  one  who 
first  made  them. 

Looking  again, — this  time  behind  the  door, — she 
espied  a  box.  She  took  it  hastily  from  its  hiding- 
place,  and  opened  it  at  once.  It  was  small,  but  it 
was  filled. 

There  was  a  roll  of  bank-notes  within,  and  across 
the  top  lay  a  strip  of  paper,  on  which  was  written 

'  A  HAPPY  NEW  YEAR.' 

The  poor  widow  burst  into  tears.  She  saw  her 
rent-arrears  now  fully  paid,  and  her  wants  all 
munificently  provided  for.  Indeed,  —  indeed,  it 
was  a  '  happy  new  year '  beneath  the  humble  roof 
of  the  widow  Russell  and  her  child ! 

-  On  our  every  hand  there  be  many  moss- 
stained  roofs;  and  the  sifting  snows  fall  silently 
through   many  a  long   and  dismal  night  of  the 
"Winter. 

And  are  there  not  man}*-,  who  will  leave 

their  footprints  in  the  snow  before  the  doors  of  such 
cottages,  while  they  likewise  leave  much  more  per- 
manent impressions  of  their  generosity  within  ? 


ASPS   AND    FLOWEES. 

young  persons — lovers — were  walking  in  a 
JL  beautiful  wood.  It  was  nigh  sunset,  and  a  day 
in  midsummer.  The  yellow  sunlight  seemed  chas- 
tened and  sweetly  subdued,  as  it  fell  down  through 
the  clustering  leaves,  and  wove  cloths  of  bewilder- 
ing gold  in  the  tangled  mazes  of  the  forest. 

Far  before  them  was  a  carpet  of  moss  and 
grasses ;  the  latter  thrusting  up  their  slender  spires 
at  this  hour  like  long  rods  of  gold.  The  most 
delicious  aromas  sailed  down  the  gentle  currents  of 
the  wind,  and  the  dreamiest  sounds  lulled  their 
thoughts  into  a  quiet  that  was  almost  as  perfect  as 
heaven.  They  walked  slowly, — sometimes  absorb- 
ed in  thought,  and  sometimes  conversing  in  low 
and  confidential  tones,  as  if  in  some  spirit-tongue. 

Little  thought  they  of  the  surrounding  circum- 
stances that  created  this  peculiar  atmosphere  for 
them.  Though  they  were  not  insensible  to  their 
effects,  yet  they  seemed  to  observe  nothing  of  the 
material  objects  about  them.  They  heard  not  the 
drowsy  drum  of  the  distant  waterfall.  The  sharp 


ASPS  AND   FLOWERS.  211 

singing  of  the  evening  insect,  as  he  clove  the  still 
air  with  his  silver  wings,  went  unheard  and  un- 
heeded. They  saw  not  the  matchless  changes  of 
light  upon  the  bunches  of  rich,  dark  leaves ;  nor 
marked  the  velvety  look  of  the  moss-tapestry  upon 
the  huge  tree-trunks  ;  nor  felt  the  fresh  wind-breaths 
that  fanned  their  foreheads ;  nor  heeded  the  melan- 
choly, musical  whirring  of  the  frogs,  upon  the 
margin  of  a  distant  pool  in  the  heart  of  the  wood. 
They  knew  not  of  any  of  these  things.  They  saw 
nothing,  save  only  each  other.  And  yet  the  influ- 
ences of  these  objects  and  sounds  were  not  lost 
upon  them.  Their  souls  drank  them  in ;  and  their 
words  became  more  impassioned  ;  more  tender ; 
and  more  beautiful. 

The  young  man  was  a  lawyer ;  a  mere  novice  in 
his  profession  ;  yet  a  person  of  fine  intellectual 
endowments,  and  of  generous  sentiments  and  sen- 
sibilities. He  had  come  on  a  visit  to  Mary. Graham 
from  town,  intending  to  remain  in  the  little  village 
of  Mapleton  for  a  number  of  days.  The  most  of 
his  time  was  passed  in  her  society,  as  a  matter  very 
much  of  course.  They  took  many  drives  together, 
among  the  most  picturesque  places  that  Mary 
knew.  She  had  many  a  chosen  spot,  around  which 
her  fondest  feelings  gathered  and  grouped  them- 
selves ;  and  she  seemed  never  to  tire  in  witnessing 
the  delight  they  gave  him  as  well  as  herself. 


212  CAP  SHEAF. 

There  were  drives  across  the  hills ;  and  down 
through  the  shadiest  dells ;  where  the  spruce  and 
hemlock  interlaced  their  dark  broad  branches;  and 
silent  little  brooks  slunk  away  into  the  impenetra- 
ble recesses  of  the  wood,  swirling  softly  around  old 
gnarled  tree-roots  on  their  mysterious  way.  There 
were  sweet  walks  by  the  river  side,  and  rude 
benches  were  placed  beneath  friendly  trees,  or 
beside  luxuriant  vines.  On  these  they  sat,  in  the 
fullness  of  the  summer's  day,  and  watched  the 
steady  flow  of  the  little  river ;  giving  up  their 
senses  to  the  most  delicious  reverie ;  letting  their 
thoughts  sail  down  and  away  upon  the  glassy  wave- 
lets ;  drinking  in  evanescent  influences  with  each 
wind- gust  that  stirred  among  the  vine-leaves  around 
them;  or  gazing  lovingly  into  each  other's  eyes, 
until  the  silence, — the  influence, — the  place, — the 
solitude,  assured  them  that  all  earthly  joy  was 
theirs. 

Alas,  for  the  asp, — the  poisonous  adder, — 

that .  coils  and  sleeps  among  -  the  green  leaves,  or 
beneath  the  ripe  fruit !  Each  hour  has  its  own  wo, 
as  surely  as  hath  each  rose  its  thorn. 

On  the  night  to  which  I  have  made  allusion, 
the  two  lovers  passed  from  their  canopied  walk  in 
the  wood,  and  crossed  the  river  on  the  frail  bridges 
that  spanned  the  stream.  They  continued  their 
stroll  until  they  came  to  one  of  these  rustic  seats 


ASPS    AND   FLOWERS.  213 

by  the  river,  and  here  sat  down.  The  scene  was 
surpassingly  lovely.  It  seemed  never  to  have 
offered  them  so  much  of  beauty,  both  seen  and  un- 
seen, before.  For  some  time,  neither  of  them 
spoke.  It  was  an  hour  of  serene  happiness.  The 
lovers  felt  the  power  of  the  golden  link  that  united 
them  so  mystically. 

Their  hour  was  protracted ;  and  when  they  rose 
to  go,  the  dusky  shadows  were  thronging  around 
them  from  the  woods.  Sauntering  slowly,  and  as 
if  regretfully,  up  the  lane,  they  reached  the  open 
road  that  conducted  them  to  the  gate  of  Mary's 
home.  Her  companion  bade  her  good-night  at  the 
gate,  promising  an  early  call  in  the  morning.  And 
the  lovely  Mary  Graham  bounded  joyously  into 
the  house. 


"  The  postman  has  gone  by  since  you  have  been 
out,"  said  Mary's  sister, — a  little  girl  of  but  ten 
summers — "  and  brought  you  this  letter." 

Mary  took  it  eagerly  from  the  child's  hand,  and 
closely  scanned  the  superscription.  It  was  in  a 
gentleman's  hand,  and  one  not  at  all  familiar  to  her. 
She  looked  at  the  post-mark.  It  was  that  of  the 
metropolis.  Not  daring  to  trust  herself  to  break 
the  seal  in  the  presence  of  any  one,  she  instantly 


214  CAP  SHEAF. 

retired  with  the  strange  missive  to  her  chamber. 
Throwing  herself  back  in  a  huge  arm-chair  that 
still  stood  by  the  open  window,  she  proceeded  \o 
open  the  letter  with  trembling  hands,  and  an  un- 
wonted fluttering  of  the  heart.  It  was  already 
twilight,  and  the  shadows  of  evening  were  gather- 
ing about  the  casement.  Yet  her  excitement  was 
so  great,  she  thought  not  of  the  feeble  and  failing 
light.  She  was  able  to  faintly  trace  the  written 
words,  and  slowly  and  thoroughly  read  the  letter 
through. 

It  must  indeed  have  been  a  strange  production, 
if  one  might  judge  by  the  effect  it  manifestly  begot. 

The  young  girl  instantly  threw  her  head  far  back 
in  the  cushion,  leaving  the  open  letter  still  lying  in 
her  lap, — and  clasped  tightly  with  each  hand  the 
arm  of  her  chair.  A  hot  and  burning  flush  over- 
spread her  forehead,  her  cheeks,  and  her  neck  ;  her 
heart  throbbed  so  that  she  could  distinctly  hear  its 
deep  pulsations  in  the  evening  silence;  her  eyes 
wore  a  wild  and  half-insane  expression,  as  if  she 
were  struggling  with  some  fearful,  dreadful  thought 
in  her  burning  brain. 

She  sat  in  this  position  for  nearly  an  hour; 
neither  the  cool  breaths  of  the  evening  air,  nor  the 
subdued  music  of  the  summer  insects,  sufficing  to 
calm  the  perturbed  flow  of  her  spirits.  The  longer 
she  sat  there,  and  the  more  she  thought  upon  the 


ASPS  AND  FLOWERS.  215 

contents  of  the  letter,  the  more  deeply  bewildered 
became  she.  There  was  something  terrible  in  it. 
Its  words  scorched  her  brain,  though  she  could 
scarcely  trace  them  in  the  gathering  shadows.  And 
now  that  it  lay  open  in  her  lap,  flung  away  from 
her  as  it  were,  she  seemed  to  feel  it  as  a  dreadful 
presence  ;  capable  of  cankering  all  her  happiness ; 
breaking  her  brittle  hopes  with  a  vandal  hand ; 
pushing  her  fears  to  the  verge  even  of  insanity ; 
and  walling  in  her  vision  on  every  side  with  a 
thick  bank  of  darkness.  The  room  was  desolation 
itself  to  her.  The  cool  air  that  drew  in  through 
the  window,  fell  like  a  deathly  chill  upon  her  bared 
shoulders.  The  sounds  out  of  doors  were  all  dis- 
.mal  and  foreboding. 

What  a  change  had  been  wrought  in  that 

single  heart  by  a  letter !  and  from  an  unknown 
writer,  too  !  There  was  no  signature ;  nothing  but 
the  post-mark  gave  indication  whence  it  came. 

Mary  Graham  was  never  so  undecided  what  to 
do.  The  oftener  she  made  the  attempt  to  determine 
what  step  to  take,  the  more  incapable  she  felt  of 
taking  any  step  at  all.  The  fever  grew  more  vio- 
lent within  her,  the  longer  she  thought  the  matter 
over.  And  after  sitting  for  a  long  time  alone  in 
her  silent  chamber,  and  after  pacing  hurriedly  to 
and  fro  across  the  floor,  she  at  length  retired  to  bed, 
hoping  thus  to  calm  the  deep  agitation  that  ruled 


216  CAP   SHEAF. 

her.  But  as  the  hours  wore  away,  and  midnight 
advanced,  she  was  still  as  far  from  a  decision  as 
ever.  She  tossed  feverishly  upon  her  couch,  and 
pressed  her  forehead  with  her  hot,  dry  palms.  The 
room  seemed  full  of  flitting  phantoms;  but  not 
one  was  there  that  could  soothe  her  nerves,  or  dis- 
entangle the  ensnarled  emotions  that  wrought  so 
terribly  in  her  breast. 

Morning  came ;  but  with  it  dawned  no  new  joy. 
Even  the  old  thoughts  of  pleasure  rose  not  with  the 
red  sun,  to  lighten  her  path  through  the  day  that 
was  before  her.  She  had  formed  her  resolution, 
through  the  passage  of  those  gloomy  night-hours ; 
and  no  sunlight  of  the  returned  morning  could 
drive  out  the  dark  sorrows  from  the  recesses  of  her* 
heart. 

She  went  down  stairs  and  ate  her  breakfast  as 
usual.  Her  mother  remarked  an  uncommon  sad- 
ness in  her  countenance,  but  Mary  parried  the 
observation  by  some  trifling  speech  of  her  own,  to 
the  effect  that  she  had  rested  but  little  through  the 
night.  How  truthfully  she  spake !  But  there  was 
a  secret  cause  behind  that. 

After  breakfast,  she  went  back  to  her  chamber 
again.  She  threw  herself  in  her  capacious  arm- 
chair by  the  window,  and  fell  to  musing.  Her 
eyes  roved  among  the  green  leaves  of  the  fruit- 
trees  that  shaded  her  window ;  and  lingered  upon 


ASPS   AND   FLOWERS.  217 

the  tulips,  and  hyacinths,  and  periwinkles,  and  the 
flowering  honeysuckles  that  clambered  to  the 
piazza  roof.  Yet  none  of  these  objects  offered  her 
sight  their  wonted  beauty.  She  gazed  idly  at 
them,  as  a  child  looks  in  the  images  of  some  sud- 
den day-dream.  For  her  ears  the  waterfall  had  no 
music,  as  its  subdued  beat  rolled  up  through  the 
copse  that  skirted  the  hither  side  of  the  river. 
There  was  no  melody  in  the  music  of  the  morning 
birds,  that  perched  on  the  cherry  and  plum  trees 
in  the  little  garden,  and  warbled  their  matin  songs. 
The  sky  itself  was  sombre  and  saddened ;  and  the 
air,  fragrant  as  it  was  with  the  incense  of  a  thou- 
sand flowers,  offered  not  the  least  balmy  breath  to 
her  nostrils.  While  she  sat  thus  mopingly  in  her 
chair,  a  light  step  was  heard  upon  the  piazza  below 
her,  and  there  came  a  tap  at  the  door.  In  a  mo- 
ment afterwards,  her  little  sister  presented  herself 
in  the  chamber. 

"  Mr.  Nelson  is  down  stairs,"  said  she,  in  a  low 
voice,  which  itself  betrayed  her  childish  heart, 
"  and  wishes  to  see  you  this  morning,  Mary." 

"Well,  come  here,"  replied  Mary,  not  moving 
from  her  chair.  But  her  face  was  never  so  livid 
before. 

The  little  girl  approached  her  sister. 

"Well,"  said  Mary,  "you  must  tell  Mr.  Nelson 
what  I  tell  you.     Will  you  promise  me  ?" 
10 


218  CAP  SHEAF. 

The  child  looked  up  wonderingly  from  out  her 
large  blue  eyes  at  her  sister,  and  replied, — "  Yes." 

"  Tell  him,"  said  Mary,  her  lips  quivering  with 
the  emotion  that  stirred  her,  "that  I  do  not  wish  to 
see  him!  I  will  not  come  down  to  see  him !" 

Little  Nell  looked  more  affrighted  than  ever. 
She  continued  gazing  in  her  sister's  face,  as  if  wait- 
ing for  another  explanation  of  so  fearful  a  mystery. 
But  nothing  met  her  look  save  that  same  glare  of 
determination, — half  defiance,  half  sorrow, — yet 
determination  binding  the  whole  together  as  with 
iron  bands. 

"Nell,  do  as  I  bid  you !"  again  spake  Mary,  in  a 
more  imperious  tone. 

The  child  had  half  a  mind  to  burst  into  tears  ; 
but  the  greater  mystery  of  the  matter  controlled 
her  childish  grief.  She  left  the  room  with  a  heavy 
heart,  and  performed  her  errand  faithfully. 

What  were  Mr.  Nelson's  feelings  on  the  reception 
of  such  astounding  intelligence,  cannot  be  accu- 
rately told.  He  was  at  first  too  much  thunder- 
struck to  make  any  reply  at  all ;  and  Nell  continued 
in  the  room,  as  if  she  instinctively  thought  it  her 
duty,  if  it  were  possible,  to  break  the  force  of  his 
great  sorrow  with  her  infantile  presence.  She 
possessed  the  heart  of  a  woman,  even  at  her  tender 
years. 

He  at  length  collected  his  senses  sufficiently  to 


ASPS  AND  FLOWERS.  219 

request  little  Nell  to  go  back  to  her  sister,  and  ask 
the  reason  of  her  sudden  refusal  to  see  him.  The 
girl  went  at  once. — He  was  alone.  His  head  swam. 
His  senses  sickened.  He  saw  only  darkness  around 
him.  A  fear  that  he  might  suddenly  faint  and  fall 
to  the  floor,  possessed  him.  His  love  for  Mary  was 
so  fervent,  that  death  seemed  the  necessary  conse- 
quence of  its  disruption.  O,  what  a  fearful  moment 
lay  between  the  child's  going  and  returning ! 

Nell  brought  back  no  explanation  of  her  sister's 
sudden  determination ;  only  a  repetition  of  her 
cruel  refusal  to  see  him  at  all.  He  rose  from  his 
seat,  and  left  the  room  and  the  house.  His  heart 
was  full  to  overflowing, — nay,  to  breaking.  But 
he  controlled  his  emotion,  and  walked  thoughtfully 
down  the  path  to  the  gate.  An  hour  afterwards, 
while  Mary  still  sat  at  her  chamber  window,  she 
saw  Mr.  Nelson's  carriage  rolling  rapidly  down  the 
road.  She  was  in  the  same  clear  sunshine,  and 
amid  the  same  fragrant  flowers,  and  surrounded  by 
the  same  entrancing  music  of  birds,  and  drowsy 
hum  of  bees  ;  but  still  she  was  not  the  same  Mary 
Graham  she  once  was.  There  rested  a  shadow  on 
her  heart.  It  darkened  her  countenance.  It  shaded 
the  look  of  her  eyes,  as  it  were  a  thick  cloud. 

Thus  were  these  youthful  lovers  mysteriously 
separated.  Only  yesterday,  they  were  happy  ;  to- 
day, none  more  wretched.  And  a 'sheet  of  paper, 


220  CAP  SHEAF. 

— a  few  carefully  traced  lines,  had  sufficed  to  do 
this  work ! 

A  cold  night  in  December  had  set  in.  The 

air  was  full  of  indications  of  snow,  and  the  lights 
in  the  streets  burned  dimly, — the  tall  posts  that 
supported  them  looking  like  vapory  giants,  each 
with  a  single  eye,  dull  and  red.  The  streets  were 
but  little  frequented,  a  solitary  carriage,  or  dray, 
rattling  dismally  away  in  the  distance.  Everybody 
seemed  to  have  deliberately  shut  himself  in-doors, 
as  a  matter  of  choice  ;  save  only  those  wandering 
children  of  stern-faced  poverty,  whose  melancholy 
petitions  could  no  more  soften  the  walls  by  night 
than  by  day. 

In  one  of  the  most  aristocratic  streets  of  the 
town,  there  was  an  unusual  bustle.  Carriages  were 
coming  and  going ;  passengers  were  being  continu- 
ally brought  up  to  the  curb-stone  and  set  down ; 
and  people  were  sailing  in  groups  and  squads, — 
ladies  and  gentlemen,^— up  a  moderately  long  flight 
of  granite  steps.  A  flood  of  light  fell  upon  the 
sidewalk  from  the  door,  and  explained  the  cause 
of  all  this  assemblage  and  confusion. 

The  rooms  of  Mr.  "Wilson's  residence  were  radi- 
ant with  light  and  beauty.  The  thronging  company 
gathered  in  gay  knots  at  every  point  and  angle, 
come  to  offer  their  congratulations  to  Miss  Anna 
Wilson  on  the  returning  anniversary  of  her  birth- 


ASPS  AND  FLOWERS.  221 

day.  Satisfied  pride  and  pleasure  gleamed  from 
every  countenance  ;  but  from  that  of  none  so  much 
as  of  the  beautiful  Anna.  She  felt  herself  a  queen. 
Her  appearance  in  the  midst  of  her  guests  was  re- 
markably dignified  and  stately,  for  one  of  her 
years,  and  she  impressed  all  with  the  sense  of  her 
personal  grace  and  charms. 

There  was  gay  discourse  in  companies ;  pleasant 
tete-a-tetes ;  charming  rejuvenation  of  old  associa- 
tions and  sympathies ;  and  wreathing  smiles,  that 
shed  sunshine  all  around.  There  were  strains  of 
music  from  the  sweet-toned  harp ;  and  melodious 
voices  entranced  the  listeners.  Anna  "Wilson  her- 
self was  the  observed  of  all.  She  was  a  fresh  bud 
of  beauty.  The  richest  colors  blended  and  melted 
in  her  cheeks,  and  seemed  like  many-hued  clouds, 
chasing  over  the  face  of  heaven.  Her  eyes  were 
large  and  dark,  delicately  shaded  by  arching  brows, 
and  fringed  with  long,  silken  lashes.  A  simple 
orange-flower  was  fastened  in  her  raven  hair,  look- 
ing strangely  pure  by  contrast  with  its  dark  masses. 
She  was  clad  in  the  height  of  taste,  and  few  jewels 
glittered  upon  her  person.  It  seemed  fit  that  it 
should  be  so,  on  this  night  of  her  birthday  anni- 
versary. 

Mr.  Nelson,  the  talented  young  advocate,  was 
among  the  company  that  night.  Though  he  did 
not  appear  wholly  at  his  ease,  yet  he  labored  to 


222  CAP  SHEAF. 

counterfeit  complete  enjoyment.  A  shade  lay 
across  his  marble  forehead, — that  forehead  that 
seemed  so  much  paler  than  usual, — and  his  locks 
looked  more  than  usually  dark  against  its  pallor. 
Yet  he  wrestled  with  his  fate,  and  grappled  with 
the  terrible  thoughts  that  rose  in  his  mind,  as  if  he 
must  crush  the  life  out  of  them  if  he  would  him- 
self live. 

Anna  seemed  uncommonly  anxious  to  secure  his 
company  to  herself  as  much  of  the  evening  as  was 
possible ;  and  often  offered  to  receive  his  arm  for  a 
promenade  about  the  parlors,  or  through  the  spa- 
cious hall.  She  had  succeeded  in  withdrawing 
with  him,  after  a  time,  to  a  deep  recess,  formed  by 
one  of  the  windows,  from  which  opened  a  conser- 
vatory of  rare  plants.  They  stood  at  this  window 
for  some  time,  apparently  engaged  upon  an  exami- 
nation of  the  beautiful  exotics  that  there  exhaled 
their  fragrance;  but,  in  reality,  absorbed  in  an 
altogether  different  occupation.  Anna  was  dexter- 
ously sounding  the  heart  of  her  companion  with 
soft  tones,  bewitching  glances,  and  musical  words ; 
but  he  was  striving  only  to  quell  the  rebellion  that 
was  going  on  within.  She  plied  him  with  the  most 
artful  questions,  or  attempted  an  impression  by  the 
most  irresistible  looks.  She  was  ambitious  and 
proud.  Nay,  her  pride  was  her  ruling  demon ;  a 
monster,  that  had  secreted  himself  in  a  nest  of  buds 


ASPS  AND  FLOWERS.  >     223 

and  flowers.  Yet  to  all  her  speech,  and  to  all  her 
hints,  and  glances,  and  bewitching  smiles,  he  ven- 
tured no  betrayal  of  his  hidden  feelings.  Her 
beauty  only  seemed  to  sadden  him,  as  it  raised 
images  in  his  mind  of  the  beauty  that  had  gone 
down  in  a  cloud  from  his  vision,  perhaps  forever. 
No  word  of  hers,  —  no  love,  —  nor  glance,  —  nor 
look,  could  reach  his  heart.  It  was  hermetically 
sealed  to  all  such  influences.  Its  chords  refused 
to  vibrate  beneath  the  sweep  of  her  proud  pur- 
poses. 

They  were  still  standing  in  this  recess,  and  their 
hearts  were  thus  stirred  with  opposing  emotions, 
when  the  sound  of  an  approaching  footstep  caused 
them  both  to  turn  suddenly  in  the  face  of  the 
intruder. 

"  Excuse  me,  Miss  "Wilson,"  remarked  a  young 
gentleman,  whose  name  was  Mr.  Williams, — "I 
wish  you  very  much  joy  of  this  new  return  of  a 
favorite  anniversary.  I  have  not  before  been  able 
to  offer  you  my  congratulations." 

Anna  received  his  complimentary  speech  with  a 
graceful  inclination  of  her  head  and  a  gracious 
smile  ;  whereupon  he  led  forward  to  her  a  beautiful 
young  girl,  and  introduced  her. 

"  I  believe  I  received  permission  from  you,  Miss 
Wilson,"  said  he,  "  to  escort  hither  this  evening,  a 
lady  with  whom  you  do  not  happen  to  be  acquaint- 


224  CAP  SHEAF. 

ed.  Let  me  offer  to  your  friendship  my  friend, 
Miss  Mary  Graham." 

At  the  sound  of  these  syllables,  Anna  turn- 

ed  suddenly  pale ;  and  Mr.  Nelson  was  seized  with 
violent  trembling.  A  dizziness  was  upon  his  brain, 
and  he  saw  nothing  that  was  around  him.  His 
eyes  were  as  glass.  A  beaded  perspiration  instant- 
ly broke  out  upon  his  forehead  and  temples. 

Anna's  emotion,  however,  was  the  more  myste- 
rious. Yet  it  was  scarcely  less  visible  than  his. 
She  could  utter  but  a  few  general  words  of  wel- 
come to  Miss  Graham,  and  that  was  all.  Mr.  Wil- 
liams, likewise,  would  have  introduced  his  friend  to 
the  young  advocate ;  but  he  did  not  happen  himself 
to  have  any  acquaintance  with  him.  Mary  placed 
her  arm  within  his,  and  moved  slowly  away ;  yet 
not  until  she  had  thoroughly  observed  for  herself 
the  sad  plight  to  which  her  unexpected  presence 
had  reduced  her  former  lover. 

"He  loves  me  still!"  was  her  mental  ejaculation, 
as  she  turned  from  him.  Yet  she  could  not  crush 
the  thought  that  she  might  never  meet  him  again. 

Mary  was  staying  in  town  with  her  particular 

friend,  the  sister  of  Mr.  Williams,  and  by  as  strange 
coincidence  of  fortune,  good  and  bad, — was  intro- 
duced that  evening  to  the  assembly  at  Anna  Wilson's. 
She  had  hardly  retired  for  the  night, — anxious, 


ASPS  AND  FLOWERS.  225 

excited,  and  pale, — when  she  began  to  revolve  the 
whole  matter  carefully  in  her  mind. 

•Mr.  Nelson  was  pale,  agitated,  and  apparently 
wretched.  He  could  not  refuse  to  recognize  her,  as 
she  was  introduced  to  Miss  Anna  Wilson,  yet  his 
look  gave  her  deep  and  unspeakable  pain.  What- 
ever might  be  the  cause  of  her  sudden  strong  aver- 
sion to  him,  the  tenderest  associations  still  h'ung 
about  the  fleeting  memory  of  their  better  hours. 

And  then,  why  this  surprise  and  pallor,  and 
apparent  fear, — in  the  manner  of  Miss  Wilson  ?  It 
was  strange.  It  perplexed  her.  She  saw  not  why 
she  should  be  so  unreasonably  startled  by  the  sim- 
ple mention  of  her  own  name.  The  occurrence 
aroused  her  astonishment  at  first,  and  then  her  sus- 
picions. And  the  longer  her  thoughts  dwelt  upon 
it,  the  more  became  her  suspicions  grounded,  and 
strengthened,  and  confirmed. 

It  was  a  long  and  restless  night  for  poor  Mary 
Graham, — quite  as  much  so  as  that  on  which  the 
fatal  anonymous  letter  had  been  placed  in  her 
hands.  She  slept  but  little.  Her  thoughts  were 
upon  the  meaning  of  the  strange  conduct  of  Miss 
Anna  Wilson,  at  the  time  she  was  introduced  to 
her  by  her  friend,  Mr.  Williams. 

At  day-dawn  her  determination  was  taken  again. 
She  was  greatly  given  to  forming  strong  resolutions, 
and  then  of  stoutly  adhering  to  them ;  and  this 
10* 


226  CAP  SHEAF. 

was  one  of  that  character.  She  never  thought  her- 
self other  than  honest  in  her  purposes ;  and  she 
therefore  pursued  them  with  ardor  and  zeal.  • 

When  breakfast  was  over,  she  despatched  a  note 
to  the  office  of  Mr.  Nelson,  requesting  the  favor  of 
an  interview  at  the  earliest  hour  possible.  If  she 
had  been  guilty  of  an  unintentional  wrong  to  him, 
she  would  hasten  to  make  the  fullest  reparation. 

The  young  advocate  received  her  message,  and 
in  less  than  two  hours  was  awaiting  her  presence 
in  the  parlor.  She  entered  at  length,  and  the  lovers 
accosted  each  other.  Mary  was  distant  and  digni- 
fied. She  was  not  cold,  or  haughty ;  but  her  man- 
ner was  rigidly  self-possessed,  and  a  severe  check 
had  been  imposed  upon  her  feelings.  All  her  old 
memories  were  for  the  moment  buried ;  and  with 
a  strong  effort,  she  managed  to  maintain  her 
womanly  composure. 

The  young  man  was  embarrassed  and  excited. 
He  had  not  forgotten, — he  could  not  forget, — the 
love  that  yet  lived  in  his  heart  for  the  girl  before 
him  ;  and  his  emotions  were  almost  uncontrollable. 
He  bit  his  lips.  His  forehead  grew  flushed  and 
pale  by  turns.  »  His  eyesight  failed  him  for  a  brief 
moment.  And  he  looked  again ;  and  saw  the  being 
of  his  devotion  in  his  presence. 

In  a  collected  manner,  and  with  as  few  words  as 
possible,  she  narrated  to  him  the  cause  of  her  ab- 


ASPS  AND   FLOWERS.  227 

rupt  refusal  to  see  him  again.  She  spoke  of  a  letter 
she  had  received  that  night,  after  their  walk  by  the 
river  and  in  the  woods ;  the  contents  of  which 
decided  her  never  to  see  him  more.  At  the  time, 
she  felt  unwilling  to  give  him  her  reason,  although 
she  had  had  cause  since  to  regret  the  hasty  step  she 
had  then  taken.  She  assured  him  she  was  now 
anxious  that  he  should  himself  see  the  letter,  and 
answer  or  explain  its  contents,  if  it  was  within  his 
power. 

Drawing  forth  the  mischievous  production — she 
advanced,  and  handed  it  to  him.  He  opened  and 
read  it  carefully  through.  During  the  perusal,  his 
eyes  snapped,  and  glowed,  and  brightened,  as  if 
his  brain  was  burned  with  the  letters  he  traced 
upon  the  paper.  His  face  flushed,  till  it  was  as  red 
as  a  living  coal ;  and  then  a  pallor,  as  of  death, 
overspread  it,  until  it  seemed  that  he  must  swoon 
from  excess  of  deep  and  excited  emotion. 

When  he  had  finished  the  reading,  still  holding 
out  the  letter  in  his  hand,  he  said  to  Mary,  in  a 
choking  voice : 

"My  dear  Mary,  this  explains  all." 

"  How"?"  interrupted  she,  quickly. 

"Had  I  seen  this  letter  before,  I  would  have 
cleared  these  matters  up.  I  know  under  what  a 
load  of  obloquy  I  have  labored  so  long  in  your 


228  CAP   SHEAF. 

sight,  but  I  am  certain  that  I  can  cast  it  all  off.  Is 
it  jour  wish  that  I  make  the  attempt  ?" 

"  Mr.  Nelson,"  calmly  replied  she,  although  she 
was  calm  only  with  an  almost  superhuman  effort — 
"  Mr.  Nelson,  this  is  the  only  barrier  that  has  ever 
been  interposed  between  us.  Only  break  this  effec- 
tually down,  and  I  receive  you  again  into  my  heart, 
where  you  have  ruled  and  reigned  so  long." 

"  This  is  an  anonymous  letter,"  said  he  ;  "a  cow- 
ardly, assassin-like  letter.  The  hand-writing  is  that 
of  a  man.  I  think  I  recognize  the  individual  in 
his  hand.  He  was  too  cowardly  to  affix  his  name 
to  such  a  malicious  document  as  that.  Do  I  have 
your  permission,  Mary,  to  take  this  with  me  to  my 
office?" 

"  If  you  think  by  any  means  you.  can  clear  these 
charges  up,"  she  answered. 

"I  will  be  here  before  dinner!"  he  exclaimed; 
and  he  took  his  hat  and  hastily  left  the  house. 

Mary  was  left  to  her  own  sad  and  wild  thoughts. 
She  had  made  a  confidant  of  her  friend  in  this 
matter ;  but  no  words  from  another  could  allay  her 
deep  agitation. 

Mr.  Nelson  returned  to  his  office  and  equipped 
himself  for  a  visit  to  one  of  his  gentlemen  acquaint- 
ances. He  was  laboring  under  a  fearful  excite- 
ment, and  felt  scarcely  capable  of  complete  self- 
control.  He  was  on  the  point  of  opening  the  door 


ASPS   AND   FLOWERS.  229 

to  go  out,  when  it  was  opened  suddenly  from  the 
outside,  and  a  gentleman  entered. 

"  Good  morning,  Nelson  !"  saluted  the  visitor,  a 
young  man  of  not  more  than  fi  ve-and-twenty  years. 
"  Are  you  fairly  over  the  party  of  Miss  Wilson's 
last  night  ?" 

"  Mr.  White,"  said  the  young  advocate,  drawing 
his  form  up  haughtily,  "  I  have  a  serious  word  for 
you.  I  wish  you  to  look  at  that  letter,  and  tell  me 
if  it  is  in  your  hand  ?" 

His  visitor  entered,  and  took  the  letter  from  his 
hands.  He  glanced  at  its  contents,  and,  hastily 
satisfying  himself  of  their  character,  replied  unhesi- 
tatingly that  the  writing  was  his  own. 

"  Now  I  want  an  explanation  of  it,"  calmly,  but 
resolutely  continued  Mr.  Nelson. 

"  There  is  something  wrong  here,  I  know"  an- 
swered Mr.  White.  "I  am  sure  that  I  never  knew 
what  the  letter  meant,  or  for  whom  it  was  destined. 
Least  of  all,  did  I  expect  ever  to  see  it  in  your 
hands.  But  I  will  explain. — I  called  on  Miss  Anna 
Wilson  one  day  last  summer,  who  requested  a 
special  favor  of  me,  as  she  said,  while  she  likewise 
took  especial  pains  to  enjoin  secrecy.  She  pro- 
duced to  me  a  letter  in  her  own  hand,  which  she 
said  she  was  anxious  for  me  to  copy.  She  neither 
told  me  its  object,  to  whom  it  was  going,  nor  to 
whom  it  applied.  I  supposed  it,  at  the  time,  to  be 


230  CAP  SHEAF. 

nothing  more  than  some  playful  design  she  had  in 
view.  I  at  once  sat  down  by  her  and  copied  it. 
Now  let  me  ask  how  you  came  with  it ;  and  how  it 
is  made  to  apply  to  your  case." 

The  young  lawyer  was  astonished  almost  beyond 
expression.  At  length,  however,  he  told  the  story 
of  the  mischief  it  had  already  done,  and  said  that 
he  now  understood  its  whole  object  and  purpose. 
The  two  gentlemen  were  more  friends  than  ever ; 
and  their  examination  of  Miss  Anna  Wilson's  dis- 
position was  any  thing  but  flattering  to  the  charac- 
ter and  pretensions  of  that  lady.  The  matter  was 
at  once  explained  to  Mary.  She  now  compre- 
hended all,  and  was  satisfied.  She  told  Mr.  Nelson 
of  the  suspicion  Miss  Wilson's  conduct  had  excited 
in  her  mind  the  evening  before,  to  the  force  of 
which  he  assented  in  full. 

Mr.  Nelson  himself  took  the  letter  to  Anna, 

and  unraveled  to  her  the  plot  she  had  been  so 
carefully  weaving,  under  cover  of  an  anonymous 
letter.  She  knew,  it  appeared,  of  his  preference 
for  Mary,  and  had  thus  determined,  by  a  fabrica- 
tion of  the  grossest  charges,  to  ruin  him  in  that 
young  lady's  opinion.  After  that,  she  fancied  her 
own  way  to  his  heart  both  easy  and  direct.  She 
protested ;  she  denied ;  she  wept  violently ;  and 
she  affected  convulsions ;  but  Mr.  Nelson  stopped 
not  until  he  had  gone  through  the  whole  story. 


ASPS  AND  FLOWEES.  231 

And  in  the  midst  of  her  terror,  he  left  her  to 
her  reflections.  He  made  no  complaints ;  he  only 
told  her  his  knowledge  of  the  plot,  of  which  he 
had  made  so  timely  a  discovery. 

—  It  was  not  three  months  after  this  disclosure, 
so  fraught  with  disgrace  to  Anna  Wilson,  that  the 
marriage  of  Mr.  Nelson  and  Mary  Graham  was 
celebrated ;  and  she  moved  at  once  into  town,  to 
ornament  the  society  in  which  her  husband  was 
wont  to  move. 

It  was  too  severe  a  blow  for  Anna.  She  seized 
upon  a  sudden  opportunity  to  marry  ;  and,  full  of 
mortification,  rather  than  happiness,  left  the  metrop- 
olis on  her  wedding-day,  to  take  up  her  residence 
in  a  distant  city. 


A    FROLIC    WITH    FORTUNE. 

»{  T^LLEN,  did  you  know  that  this  is  St.  Valen- 

Jdj  tine's  Day?" 

"  True,  Bella;  so  it  is.  How  strange  I  had  not 
thought  of  it  before !" 

"  And  I  have  not  yet  selected  a  Valentine  for 
the  year !" 

"Nor  I,  Bell;  indeed,  I  had  quite  forgotten  all 
about  it.  I  had  not  thought  the  day  so  near ;  and 
here  it  is,  right  upon  us !" 

"Perhaps  it  is  not  too  late  even  now?" 

"  Very  well ;  I  leave  it  with  you,  Bell." 

"Do  you?  Well  then,  I  Jiave  a  plan.  See 
here!"  * 

The  two  young  girls  between  whom  this 

short  thread  of  conversation  had  run,  were  at  the 
time  seated  in  the  cosey  little  parlor  of  a  country 
clergyman's  house,  in  a  pleasant  village  of  New 
England. 

The  bright  sun  flooded  the  room  with  its  morn- 


A  FROLIC  WITH  FORTUNE.  233 

ing  light,  and  irradiated  trie  fair  faces  of  the  speak- 
ers with,  a  look  of  joy.  The  earth  was  an  unstain- 
ed field  of  snow, — the  steady  storm  of  the  night 
being  succeeded  by  a  morn  as  serene  and  clear  as 
that  which  first  dawned  on  the  creation.  The 
trees  in  the  yard  bore  heavily  of  their  unsullied 
fruitage,  their  branches  and  light  sprays  bending 
far  down  beneath  the  burden.  The  whole  scene 
was  beautiful  ;  the  more  serenely  so  from  the 
holy  silence  that  brooded,  dove-like,  over  every- 
thing. 

Bella  was  the  only  child  of  the  Keverend  Mr. 
Bellingham, — and  he,  her  only  living  parent.  En- 
dowed with  qualities  of  beauty  sufficiently  singular 
to  attract  attention  from  those  to  whom  such  pos- 
sessions first  recommend  themselves,  there  was 
likewise  a  grace, — an  impulsiveness, — an  inexpli- 
cable charm  in  her  manner,  that  much  transcended 
her  other  qualifications,  and  gave  her  person  a 
radiant  beauty  peculiarly  their  own. 

In  the  matter  of  intellectual  endowment,  she 
could  boast  even  of  profuseness.  Her  mental  qual- 
ities were  quick,  ready,  and  brilliant.  The  life  of 
her  soul  sparkled  and  shone  in  her  deep,  dark  eyes, 
above  which  was  a  brow  for  a  handsome  woman  to 
boast  of.  It  was  not  high, — prejudicing  the 
beholder  with  the  idea  of  a  woman  all  intellect  and 
no  heart ;  but  broad  and  well  proportioned, — its 


234  CAP  SHEAF. 

full  and  balanced  developments  suggesting  only  a 
thought  of  calm  strength,  and  unruffled  purity  and 
peace. 

Thus  far  had  Bella  received  a  careful  education, 
both  at  the  hands  of  well-paid  instructors  and  of 
her  father.  Early  had  her  mind  been  impressed 
with  the  serious  duties  of  affection  and  obedience  ; 
and  with  pious  paternal  care  had  the  links  of  that 
golden  chain  been  riveted,  which  was  let  down  to 
draw  her  gently  up  to  her  true  destiny. — Yet  there 
was  a  secret  germ  in  her  heart;  so  minute  that 
even  her  father's  microscopic  vision  could  not 
detect  it ;  yet  so  full  of  vitality,  that  hands  much 
more  active  than  his  could  not  effectually  have 
uprooted  it.  In  other  words,  the  heart  of  the  good 
clergyman's  daughter  was  imbued  with  an  elf-like 
spirit  of  frolic  and  gayety,  such  as  soon  began  to 
bring  to  light  all  the  hitherto  hidden  recesses  of  her 
character.  Her  temperament  was  tinged  with  an 
impulsive  ardor,  and,  withal,  she  was  not  altogether 
a  stranger  to  quite  romantic  sympathies  and 
dreams.  Anything  that  had  the  first  hue  of  real 
romance,  possessed  for  her  an  immediate  interest 
and  importance. 

Yet  with  all  these  qualities  of  mind  and  heart, 
she  was  a  girl  of  much  more  than  ordinary  firm- 
ness of  character.  People  were  in  the  habit  of 
saying  that  this  was  but  a  rightful  inheritance  from 


A  FROLIC  WITH  FORTUNE.        235 

her  father.  That  father  was  a  man  naturally  of 
the  rigid,  Puritanic  stamp ;  not  only  carrying  his 
influence  properly  with  him  into  his  pulpit  of  a 
Sunday,  but  likewise  wearing  it  about  him  through 
the  other  six  days  of  the  week,  just  as  he  wore  his 
ordinary  clerical  garments.  He  was  himself  gov- 
erned— and  he  generally  governed  others — by  an 
iron  will  and  an  indomitable  purpose.  And  as  a 
matter  quite  of  course,  he  possessed  great  weight 
of  character  the  country  round.  His  parish  was 
made  up  almost  entirely  of  wealthy  and  aristocrati- 
cally inclined  persons,  whose  individual  character- 
istics had  been  firmly  welded  together  by  the  active 
and  superior  power  of  their  strong-minded  minis- 
ter. So  that  the  little  New  England  village  of 
Woodlawn  held  up  its  head  quite  as  high,  in  the 
matter  of  pretensions,  as  almost  any  corporate  city 
within  the  limits  of  her  six  sovereign  States. 

Ellen  McLane  was  Bella's  companion  in  the 
parlor  of  the  parsonage,  on  this  golden  morning  of 
St.  Valentine  ; — a  girl  differing  not  much  from  the 
latter  in  point  of  years,  yet  much  more  cool  and 
collected  in  her  judgment.  She  was  Bella's  warm 
and  tried  friend.  Indeed,  the  two  girls  seemed  as 
inseparable  as  sisters.  Together  they  had  plucked 
the  flowers  from  many  a  fleeting  hour,  and  together 
sat  down  to  make  rosy  wreaths  out  of  their  sweet 
remembrances.  And  it  was  on  one  of  these  genial 


236  CAP  SHEAF. 

re-unions  that  the  conversation  turned,  as  I  have 
begun  to  relate,  on  the  subject  of  a  Valentine. 

"  See  here !  See  here !"  cried  the  overjoyed 

Bella,  her  eyes  dilating  with  pleasure,  and  her 
whole  countenance  glowing  with  a  warm  expres- 
sion. 

She  snatched  a  pamphlet  from  the  table,  and 
held  it  up  triumphantly  before  the  eyes  of  Ellen. 

"  Pray,  what  have  you  got  there?"  inquired  the 
latter,  not  at  all  surprised  by  this  very  common 
impulsiveness  of  her  manner. 

"  A  College  Catalogue  I"  said  Bella;  — "out  of 
this  we  will  each  of  us  find  a  Valentine !  What 
say  you  to  it,  Nell  ?" 

"What  a  capital  idea!"  responded  Ellen. 

"But  just  let  me  tell  you,  Nell,  how  we  will 
.proceed.  We  will  look  through  the  whole  list  of 
these  names,  and  you  shall  select  the  one  that  best 
suits  your  fancy,  while  I  do  the  same  for  myself. 
After  we  have  gone  through  all,  I  will  shut  the 
book,  and  we  will  each  tell  the  other  what  name 
has  been  selected." 

"  I  agree  to  it !"  quickly  replied  Ellen. 

The  two  girls  fondly  twined  their  arms  each 
about  the  other's  waist,  and  for  a  considerable  time 
were  intently  engaged  in  poring  over  the  pages  of 
the  Catalogue. 

It  would  have  been   extremely  interesting  to 


A  FROLIC  WITH  FORTUNE.        237 

watch  the  varied  expressions  that  successively 
chased  each  other,  as  in  some  magnetic  circuit,  over 
their  blooming  countenances.  Throughout  the 
whole,  too,  there  was  a  play  of  excitement  over 
their  features,  and  more  especially  within  their 
eyes,  that  greatly  heightened  the  charm  of  their 
expressions. 

The  long  lists  of  names  were  at  length  gone 
through.  The  book  was  closed,  and  the  white 
hand  of  Bella  laid  authoritatively  upon  the  cover. 

"  Who  is  it  ?"  asked  both  girls,  in  one  and 

the  same  breath. 

"  What  is  your  name  ?"  questioned  Bella. 

"  Henry  William  Sterling,"  readily  replied  Ellen. 

"  Fudge !"  exclaimed  Bella. 

"But  why  'fudge,'  Bell?" 

"  Oh, — such  a  common  name !" 

"True  enough;  but  it  is  at  least  a  sterling  one," 
retorted  Ellen,  gleefully.  "  Now  for  yours,  Bella  ! 
What  is  it  ?" 

"  Alphonze  Wildebrand.  There's  a  name  for 
you,  Nell !" 

"I  should  think  so.     Italian,  too  !" 

"  Yes,  Italian.  It  wasn't  /  who  was  going  to 
select  one  of  your  common  American  names  !  Be- 
sides, there  is  a  mystery  here  about  this  person.  I 
know  nothing  at  all  of-  his  early  history  ;  while  the 
lives  of  all  Americans  are  pretty  much  alike.  I 


238  CAP  SHEAF. 

know  nothing  about  his  family.  I  cannot  even 
imagine  how  he  should  find  his  way  here  to  a 
College  in  New  England,  from  far-off  Italy.  There's 
a  romance  here,  Nell, — believe  me  I" 

"And  that's  what  suits  you,"  returned  Ellen, 
pleasantly. 

"  Well,  but  no  matter.  Here  are  pens  and  ink, 
and  there  is  note-paper.  Will  you  sit  down  and 
write  your  Valentine  now  ?  There  is  a  volume  of 
poetical  selections, — '  beauties,'  I  believe  they  are 
called, — and  you  can  glean  from  them  what  seems 
most  apt  for  your  purpose." 

"Yes, — but  then  what  will  you  do?  This  is 
your  only  book." 

«/?" — and  Bella  could  not  conceal  the  roguish 
smile  that  broke  out  at  the  corners  of  her  pretty 
mouth, — "  Oh,  trust  me  for  that !  I  am  going  to 
give  my  friend,  Mr.  Alphonse,  some  of  my  own 
rhyme !" 

"  But  I  am  not  so  gifted  as  you,  Bell.  I  shall 
therefore  content  myself  with  employing  the  lan- 
guage others  have  prepared  for  me. — Which  is  the 
book?" 

Instantly  both  the  frolicsome  friends  began 

their  task ;  Bella  all  the  while  laughing  till  the 
room  rang  with  the  echoes  of  her  musical  voice, 
and  Ellen  growing  more  and  more  confused  in  pro- 
portion as  Bella  became  noisy  and  collected.  And 


A  FKOLIC  WITH  FOETUNE.        239 

it  would  have  wreathed  the  most  ascetic  face  with 
sunny  smiles,  to  behold  the  pitch  of  merriment  to 
which  they  had  temporarily  wrought  themselves ; 
• — not  altogether  by  words  and  tangible  expressions, 
but  by  the  slightest  nods, — the  hastiest  exchange 
of  playful  glances, — and  the  most  trivial  betrayals 
of  ill-suppressed  laughter. 

Some  considerable  time  was  naturally  consumed 
in  this  business,  and  at  length  each  reported  that 
she  had  finished  the  task  undertaken.  Then  suc- 
ceeded a  proposition  that  the  two  notes  should  be 
read  aloud,  before  sealing ;  and  then  came  the  read- 
ing itself. 

Ellen's  was  no  more  than  an  indefinite  and  ex- 
ceedingly general  sentiment,  nowise  particular  in 
its  application,  and  apposite  only  to  the  occasion 
in  hand.  It  was  brief, — pointed  enough, —  and 
transcribed  in  a  fair,  girlish,  legible  hand. 

Bella,  on  the  contrary,  had  poured  out  upon  her 
white  sheet  what  glowed  with  the  brightness  and 
warmth  of  a  flame  of  fire.  Though  entirely  im- 
promptu with  her,  it  was  crowded  with  intense 
meaning,  and  gleamed  all  over  with  the  sparkles 
of  a  true  and  earnest  feeling.  To  a  stranger, — and 
particularly  to  a  young  and  susceptible  stranger, — • 
such  words  would  come  as  the  expressions  of  a 
deliberately  formed  partiality.  A  warm  spirit 
would  at  once  take  fire  with  them ;  especially,  as 


240  CAP  SHEAF. 

they  came  from  a  source  so  completely  enveloped 
in  mystery,  themselves  closely  woven  in,  too,  with 
the  golden  threads  of  such  romantic  associations. 

Bella  laughed  heartily  on  completing  the  reading 
of  her  production,  esteeming  it  all  a  good  joke, — in 
fact,  the  very  best  joke  she  had  ever  yet  played  off 
on  any  one.  She  had,  however,  gone  much  beyond 
jocular  limits,  in  that  she  had  so  fervently  addressed 
the  Italian  student  as  an  ideal  character, — rather 
than  a  flesh-and-blood  personage.  But  the  result 
would  in  good  time  develop  itself.  She  averred 
she  cared  for  nothing  now  so  much  as  the  joke. 

The  two  notes,  therefore,  were  forthwith  sealed 
up,  and  intrusted  to  the  hands  of  Ellen,  who  ex- 
pected her  father's  sleigh  for  her  every  moment  at 
the  door.  She  designed  leaving  them  at  the  post- 
office  on  her  way  home. 

Before  night,  they  were  on  their  way  to  their 
destination. 

A  week  rolled  round.  It  was  a  week 

crowded  with  the  usual  winter  joys  to  the  insepara- 
ble friends,  not  a  few  of  whose  hours  were  passed 
in  gravely  and  gayly  speculating  upon  the  denoue- 
ment of  their  bold  proceedings.  Each  had  made  a 
venture,  far  more  daring  than  she  had  ever 
attempted  before. 

Bella  happened  to  meet  Ellen  in  the  post-office. 
on  the  last  afternoon  of  the  week.  They  mutually 


A  FROLIC  WITH  FORTUNE.        241 

smiled  on  recognizing — as  each  thought  she  did — 
the  hidden  and  impalpable  feelings  each  of  the 
other. 

"Is  there  a  letter  for  Miss  So-and-so?"  inquired 
Bella,  of  the  official, — who  just  at  that  moment, 
too,  was  frowning  a  frown  of  official  dignity, — 
giving  him  the  fictitious  name  she  had  appended 
to  her  Valentine. 

The  postmaster  favored  her  countenance  with  a 
searching  glance,  and,  without  reaching  forth  a 
hand,  replied  that  there  was. 

"And  is  there  one  for  'Olivia'?"  asked  Ellen, 
scarcely  successful  in  repressing  the  smile  that 
insisted  on  playing  about  her  mouth. 

"Yes,"  glumly  answered  the  general  govern- 
ment's deputy. 

"  We  should  like  them,  then,"  said  Bella,  her 
eyes  brightening  perceptibly. 

Forthwith  the  man  of  the  pigeon-holes  seemed 
to  come  to  himself  again ;  for  he  instantly  went 
about  fumbling  over  his  pile  of  miscellaneous  let- 
ters, although  he  well  enough  knew  that  the  objects 
sought  were  not  among  them.  This,  however,  was 
an  artful  pretext  to  afford  him  time  to  study  the 
features  of  the  two  roguish  beauties  from  over  his 
iron-bowed  spectacles;  which  delay  he  improved 
to  the  full  of  his  advantage. 

The  girls  at  last  received  their  missives,  and  left 

11 
I 


242  CAP  SHEAF. 

the  office  in  the  highest  glee.  Breaking  the  seals 
in  haste,  they  silently  read  the  contents  as  they 
walked  on.  Both  were  too  deeply  interested  to 
utter  a  loud  syllable. 

Their  surprise  was  unbounded,  to  find  that  their 
epistles  were  signed  by  the  real  names  of  the  young 
men  whom  they  had  addressed.  There  certainly 
was  no  disguise  there.  As  it  chanced,  moreover, 
to  turn  out,  each  writer  requested  the  great  pleas- 
ure of  a  continuance  of  the  correspondence. 

Bella  read  her  note  to  Ellen  first,  when  they  had 
finally  reached  the  house  of  the  latter,  and  Ellen 
in  turn  gave  up  the  contents  of  hers  to  Bella. 

At  first  blush,  it  seemed  to  them  as  if  the  two 
students  might  have  acted  conjointly,  and  with  some 
double  purpose,  in  thus  requesting  a  continuance  of 
the  correspondence.  Yet  there  was  nothing,  after 
all,  but  pure  suspicion  on  which  to  hang  such  a 
conclusion.  It  was  possible  that  the  young  men 
did  not  so  much  as  know  each  other.  Then  how 
any  collusion  ? 

They  debated  the  matter  thoroughly,  and  in  per- 
fect confidence,  between  themselves.  Ellen's  cool 
judgment  never  contrasted  so  strikingly  with 
Bella's  wayward  impulses  as  at  this  time. 

"  What  are  we  to  do  noiv,  Nell  ?"  asked  Bella. 
"  To  tell  you  the  plain  truth,  I  am  not  a  little  per- 
plexed." 


A  FROLIC  WITH  FORTUNE.        243 

"  My  mind  is  made  up,"  replied  Ellen. 

"  To  what  ?"  inquired  Bell,  anxiously. 

"  Why,  I  think  the  matter  has  gone  far  enough, 
— -just  as  far  as  it  should,"  said  she. 

"  And  you  are  satisfied  to  drop  it  where  it  is  ?" 
said  Bella,  a  rich  carmine  beautifully  suffusing  her 
neck,  cheeks,  and  forehead. 

"  Certainly ;  to  drop  it  just  where  it  is,  Bell," 
replied  she,  with  firm  determination. 

"You  are  a/raid!"  exclaimed  Bella,  essaying 
playful  intimidation. 

"  I  mean  to  be  prudent,  Bell,"  was  Nell's  reply. 

"  For  my  part,  Nell,  I  confess  I  am  unaccounta- 
bly interested.  That  is  all, — my  curiosity  has  be- 
come awakened,  and  I  should  just  like  to  pry  far- 
ther into  this  mystery." 

"  No,  no,  Bell ;  ajoJce  is  a,joJc%;  but  there  may  be 
such  a  thing  as  carrying  it  too  far!" 

jjfr 

"  I  admit  it.  Yet  I  have  no  fears  in  my  case, 
dear  Nell !" 

"  But  what  do  you  propose,  then  ?"  asked  Ellen. 

"  To  continue  the  correspondence,"  replied  Bella. 
"  Why,  just  see  how  fervently  the  Italian  youth 
pleads  for  it !  I  declare,  I  hav'nt  it  in  my  heart  to 
deny  him  so  trifling  a  favor  1" 

"Then  I  won't  attempt  to  advise,  Bella; but  I 
am  going  to  act  as  beseems  me.  I  think  1  shall 
let  the  matter  stop  where  it  is.  We  have  had  a 


244  CAP   SHEAF. 

good  frolic  over  it  already,  and  that  is  all  we  set 
out  for." 

"And  I  think,  Nell,  that  I  shall  write  just  one 
letter  more,  to  have  the  pleasure  of  being  convinced 
that  there  is  some  reality  to  so  illusive  a  dream. 
Only  one,  however.'' 

"  I  hope  no  disappointment,  then,  may  overtake 
you,  dear  Bella,"  replied  her  friend  ;  and  not  long 
after,  the  two  girls  separated  for  the  night. 

-  If  there  was  one  single  thing  that  Isabella 
Bellingham  could  do  very  much  better  than  any 
other,  it  was  writing  a  letter.  In  this  respect,  she 
was  herself  pretty  well  aware  of  her  superiority. 

To  any  one,  it  is  an  art  that  must  prove  itself  a 
very  valuable,  as  it  certainly  is  a  most  comfortable 
acquisition.  Nor  must  it  necessarily  be  imagined  a 
possession  that  can  mysteriously  be  acquired  sim- 
ply with  the  wish.  It  costs  quite  as  much  labor 
of  preparation, — is  earned  only  on  condition  of  as 
much  preliminary  pains-taking, — and  is  perfected 
only  after  quite  as  much  practice,  as  any  one  of  the 
arts  that  are  welcomed  to  a  far  higher  rank  in  the 
public  estimation. 

Bella  had  the  name,  too,  in  this  respect,  of  being 
just  what  she  was.  She  wrote  dashing,  brilliant, 
and  oftentimes  even  eloquent  letters.  There  was  no 
mark  of  stiffness  in  them,  either ;  nor  any  trace  of 
that  formality  that  chokes  ease,  grace,  and  pleasur- 


A  FKOLIC  WITH  FORTUNE.        245 

ableness, — all  of  them  at  once, — to  death.  She 
seemed  to  hold  a  pen  with  a  diamond-point ;  yet 
with  all  the  graphic  lines  that  pen  could  at  most 
times  be  made  to  draw,  there  was  no  lack  of  lustre 
or  genial  warmth. 

The  first,  and  chief  charm  about  her  letters,  was 
their  simplicity.  There  was  no  betrayal  of  an 
effort  after  effect.  There  was  no  apparent  studious- 
ness  of  language  ;  no  trickery  of  mere  words ;  no 
adornment  only  of  phrases ; — with  which  so  many 
confound  true  beauty  of  expression,  and  true  depth 
of  feeling.  And  happily  married  with  this  vein 
of  simplicity  that  ran  through  her  letters,  was  an 
earnest  directness,  which  is  the  only  channel  upon 
which  sincerity,  and  of  course  hearty  pleasure,  can 
be  borne. 

She  reached  her  room  again,  and  threw 

herself  within  the  embracing  arms  of  a  huge  easy- 
chair  that  stood  before  the  glowing  fire,  awaiting, 
apparently,  her  return.  Throwing  off  her  hood, 
and  dismantling  her  shoulders  of  the  warm  gar- 
ment she  wore  about  them,  she  laid  her  head  back 
— far  back  into  the  yielding  depths  of  the  cushion- 
ed chair,  and  gave  herself  up  to  the  exciting  and 
engrossing  dream  of  the  moment. 

What  thoughts  drove  themselves,  like  bolts, 
through  her  brain, — what  charming  fancies  wove 
themselves  into  a  beautiful  broidery  for  those 


246  CAP  SHEAF. 

thoughts, — what  unreal  hopes  flashed  and  glittered, 
like  brilliant  fragments  of  diamonds,  before  her 
bedazzled  vision, — it  is  out  of  all  possibility  to  tell. 
No  imagination,  even,  could  successfully  follow  on 
in  the  path  so  impulsive,  so  rich,  and  so  warm  a 
nature  as  hers  would  necessarily  strike  out ;  much 
less  could  a  pen  trace  upon  paper  even  the  faintest 
outlines  of  that  path  which  such  an  imagination 
might  succeed  in  detecting. 

She  awoke  at  length  from  the  depth  of  her 

dream.  Or  rather,  from  the  quiet  into  which  she 
had  been  apparently  plunged,  she  was  ushered  at 
once  into  an  atmosphere  of  high  excitement. 
There  was  a  burning  flush  upon  her  cheek,  and 
her  dark  eyes  swam  with  the  flood  of  sudden  en- 
thusiasm that  had  overtaken  her.  With  all  this 
betrayal  of  feeling,  too,  a  secret  pride  had  been 
awakened  in  her  breast,  which  would  wreak  itself 
on  the  burning  thoughts  that  were  about  to  bestrew 
the  fair  sheet  before  her.  It  was  a  pride  that  in 
her  breast  ever  asserted  itself, — to  impress  strangers, 
and  now  this  stranger  in  particular,  with  the  bril- 
liant and  dashing  qualities  of  her  character. 

She  seated  herself  before  the  table  already  drawn 
out  in  close  contiguity  with  the  fire,  and  placed 
paper  and  ink  in  front  of  her.  Then  taking  up 
her  pen,  she  began  a  letter  to  her  distant  and  un- 
known Valentine. 


A  FROLIC  WITH  FORTUNE.        247 

Her  pen  glided  swiftly  over  line  after  line  of  the 
fair  page,  yet  never  keeping  pace  with  the  tumul- 
tuously  stirred  current  of  her  feelings  and  thoughts. 
The  first  page  of  her  sheet  was  covered, — the 
second, — the  third.  She  stopped  not,  however, 
there.  Her  heart  was  wofully  mixed  up  with  her 
work,  and  her  judgment  followed  but  blindly  on. 
She  turned  over  to  her  fourth  and  last  page  ! 

There  was  such  a  mystical  blending  of  the  real 
and  the  unreal  to  her  in  this  business,  she  could 
hardly  answer  herself  whether  she  was  addressing 
a  living  being,  with  active  and  far-reaching  sympa- 
thies, or  only  some  etherealized  idea,  —  some  un- 
clothed fragment  of  a  fancy, — some  painted  emblem 
of  an  illusive  dream. 

She  wrote  to  the  Italian  stranger  of  the  land  of 
his  nativity  ;  of  its  sunny  hill-slopes,  purpling  with 
the  clustering  grapes ;  of  its  orators  and  poets ;  of 
its  dreamy  and  delicious  scenery,  changeful  ever  in 
its  never-ending  beauty ;  of  its  grand  and  glorious 
history ;  of  its  vine-wreathed  temples, — and  foun- 
tains,— and  columns, — and  grottoes ;  of  its  breath- 
less, yet  breathing  sculpture ;  its  music,  and  its 
song. 

In  language  whose  hidden  depths  none  could 
explore  so  well  as  the  Italian  youth,  she  depicted 
the  fresh  disasters  that  crowded,  like  the  clouds  of 
oncoming  doom,  around  his  country's  horizon ;  and 


248  CAP  SHEAF. 

evoked  from  her  warm  heart  the  most  earnest 
prayers  for  its  final  restoration  to  a  condition  better 
worthy  its  early  history. 

All  this  she  meant  merely  as  impersonal.  It  was, 
in  real  truth,  farthest  from  her  deliberate  purpose 
to  do  more  than  express  a  not  uncommon  sympa- 
thy for  any  child  of  a  fair,  but  down-trodden  land. 
But  her  enthusiasm  had  led  her  much  beyond  the 
limit  she  at  first  defined  for  herself.  As  I  said, — 
her  impulses  led,  and  her  judgment  followed. 

This  letter  was  duly  dispatched  to  the  young 
man  by  the  mail  of  the  following  day.  And  but 
few  days  elapsed  thereafter,  ere  a  reply  came  back. 
The  blood  of  the  young  and  ardent  Italian  had 
fired  at  once  with  her  burning  words.  His  nature 
kindled  to  an  enthusiasm  far  transcending  her  own. 
Language  that  she  had  deemed  only  common -place 
and  complimentary,  seemed  to  him  to  have  flamed 
with  an  intensity  of  meaning. 

In  consequence,  his  letter  in  reply  was  full  of 
the  most  ardent  expressions  and  the  warmest  pro- 
testations. He  felt  flattered  that  he  had  found  so 
gifted  an  American  lady,  who  entered  with  such 
zest  into  his  own  feelings,  and  who  betrayed  such  a 
contagious  and  irrepressible  sympathy  for  his  native 
land. 

From  generalities,  it  was  but  too  easy  for  him  to 
descend  to  the  contemplation  of  individual  tastes 


A  FEOLIC  WITH   FOKTIHSTE.  249 

and  sympathies.  With  a  peculiar  felicity  and  deli- 
cacy of  expression,  he  merged  at  once  all  his  im- 
personal sympathy  for  his  native  land  into  an  indi- 
vidual, personal  sympathy  for  Miss  Bella  Belling- 
ham  ;  and  she  became  interested  in  his  words 
beyond  her  power  to  explain.  So  sensitive  and 
impressible  a  mind  as  hers,  was  the  last  to  be  heed- 
less of  such  appeals. 

When  Bella  received  this  epistle  from  the 
stranger-student,  and  after  she  had  read  it  all  care- 
fully, though  excitedly  through,  she  again  sought 
the  friendly  embraces  of  her  huge  easy-chair,  and 
passed  long  hours  alone  in  most  delightful  reflec- 
tions connected  with  the  subject.  The  matter  had 
already  gone  but  a  little  way,  and  as  yet  no  friend- 
ship that  promised  to  be  lasting,  had  been  formed, 
and  no  olden  sympathies  torn  up.  While  it  re- 
mained thus,  all  seemed  like  a  pleasant  dream.  As 
yet,  there  were  no  forebodings  in  the  sky, — no  pre- 
monitions from  lengthening  shadows  across  the 
landscape  of  the  future.  Her  heart  was  still  free 
to  revel  in  its  wonted  round  of  impulses  and  sym- 
pathies, and  could  be  brought  back  by  no  golden 
chain  held  in  another's  hand,  to  a  circle  of  dimin- 
ished limits.  She  resolved  to  continue  so  pleasant 
a  correspondence  for  a  time  longer.  , 

A  letter  followed  not  long  after  from  her 

pen  ;  and  this  again  was  speedily  succeeded  by  an- 
il* 


250  CAP  SHEAF. 

other  from  the  young  student.  For  some  time  the 
communication  was  thus  kept  up,  Bella  all  the 
while  strictly  maintaining  the  incognito  she  had  at 
first  assumed. 

At  length  she  received  one,  beseeching  her  in  a 
very  earnest  manner  to  allow  an  interview.  From 
almost  any  other  stranger  such  a  proposition  would 
have  struck  her  with  surprise  ;  but  her  heart  had 
so  unconsciously  become  interested  in  the  stranger, 
and  her  gushing  sympathies  had  gathered  them- 
selves so  closely  about  his  very  name,  that  she  be- 
trayed no  alarm  whatever,  even  to  her  own  self. 
The  proposition  was,  however,  for  the  time  declin- 
ed. Bella  pleaded  varied  inability  to  comply  with 
it,  yet  vaguely  and  encouragingly  hinted  at  the 
pleasure  and  possibility  of  a  meeting  at  some  future 
day. 

The  young  student  was  not  a  little  annoyed  by 
this  reply ;  for,  while  it  had  no  such  effect  as  to 
dampen  the  ardor  of  his  hopes,  it  nevertheless 
cruelly  deferred  the  fruition  of  his  desires.  He 
wrote  again  to  Bella.  This  time  he  besought  her, 
if  she  would  not  gratify  him  with  a  personal  inter- 
view, at  least  to  give  him  some  adequate  descrip- 
tion of  her  personal  appearance. 

The  unwonted  and  increasing  fervor  of  the  young 
man  could  not,  at  this  point,  escape  the  recognition 
of  Bella.  Already  she  felt  warned  against  proceed- 


A  FROLIC  WITH  FORTUNE.        251 

ing  too  hastily,  and  going  too  far.  In  addition  to 
this,  that  roguish,  fun-loving  element  in  her  char- 
acter now  partially  asserted  itself  to  her ;  and  be- 
tween these  two  wide  extremes  of  fear  and  fun, 
she  soon  afterwards  sat  down  to  give  her  stranger- 
friend  an  idea  of  her  personal  peculiarities. 

The  description,  as  may  well  be  imagined  under 
the  circumstances,  was  a  ludicrous  combination  of 
the  true  and  the  fanciful.  She  would  frankly  com- 
mence an  outline  of  her  features  in  all  sincerity, 
and  straightway  branch  off  upon  the  most  ridicU' 
lous  and  absurd  unrealities.  Could  her  countenance 
have  been  drawn  as  she  actually  depicted  it,  her 
friends  would  have  laughed  it  down  as  the  oddest 
of  all  the  oddities  conceivable.  She  gave  herself 
squinting  eyes  ;  and  hinted  ominously  at  her  igno- 
rance whether  her  tresses  had  yet  relinquished 
auburn  and  adopted  red.  And  so  through  the 
entire  picture.  But  the  brilliant  and  sterling  qual- 
ities of  her  mind, — it  was  beyond  the  power  of  her 
roguery  to  misrepresent  them.  Of  these  he  had 
already  had  an  earnest,  in  the  warm  and  eloquent 
effusions  of  her  pen. 

The  whole  letter — at  which  she  laughed  uncon- 
scionably, on  reading  it  over — was  crowned  with  a 
request,  made  half-playfully,  that  he  should  favor 
her  with  an  account  of  himself,  and  of  his  personal 
appearance,  in  turn. 


252  CAP   SHEAF. 

The  letter  was  sent.  Bella  thought  the  whole 
matter  over  again. — "  Perhaps,"  said  she  to  herself, 
"  I  have  gone  too  far  now ;  but  I  hav'nt  yet  com- 
mitted myself,  and  he  certainly  knows  nothing  yet 
of  my  personal  appearance,  or  even  my  name. 
Yet  it  may  be  quite  as  well  to  have  the  matter  at 
once  cut  short  here.  I  will  go  no  farther." 

This  was  the  advice  her  judgment  gave  her. 
Then  there  .stole  over  her  again  those  fragrant 
breaths  of  romance,  and  of  indescribable — because 
mysterious  sensations,  that  intoxicated  her  soul 
anew,  and  enticed  her  still  farther  on  toward  the 
pleasure  that  should  have  been  prohibited.  And 
thus  was  she  sorely  puzzled  between  the  demands 
of  duty  and  the  allurements  of  her  inclination. 

At  this  very  inopportune  time,  and  before  she 
Lad  yet  expected  to  receive  a  reply  from  the  young 
student,  her  father  chanced  one  day  to  drop  in  at 
the  village  post-office  while  the  mail  was  being 
opened.  When  he  was  once  alone  with  the  worthy 
official,  the  latter  took  the  liberty  to  acquaint  him 
with  the  fact,  that  his  daughter  Bella  was  conduct- 
ing a  correspondence,  under  a  fictitious  name,  with 
a  gentleman  in  College.  As  a  true  friend  of  his, 
he  assured  him  he  had  felt  it  to  be  his  duty  to  say 
this  much. 

The  honest  clergyman  was  thunderstruck. 

He  had  not  heard  a  whisper  of  all  this  before. 


A  FBOLIC  WITH  FORTUNE.        253 

It  was  most  astounding  and  unwelcome  intelligence 
to  him. 

"  There  is  here  at  this  time,"  quoth  the  obliging 
postmaster,  "  something  from  that  quarter  for 
Bella." 

"Impossible!"  stamped  and  exclaimed  Mr.  Bel- 
lingham.  "  Pray,  let  me  have  it  at  once !" 

Forthwith  the  devoted  man  of  letters  drew 

forth  from  a  hidden  pigeon-hole  a  letter  and  a 
small  package,  both  tightly  sealed.  They  were,  as 
usual,  addressed  to  the  name  which  Bella  had 
assumed  to  the  student. 

Fired  almost  to  frenzy,  the  doting,  yet  proud 
father  hurried  home  to  his  study.  He  excitedly 
broke  the  seal  of  the  letter,  and  read. 

It  was  an  epistle, — unfortunate  as  it  may  seem  I 
— full  of  the  warmest  expressions  of  admiration 
and  attachment.  The  young  man  had  poured  out 
his  heart  upon  the  page.  All  he  had, — all  he  was, 
— all  he  ever  hoped  to  be, — he  offered,  freely  and 
fully,  to  the  possession  of  the  lady.  He  confessed 
the  whole  burden  that  lay  at  his  heart,  and  fervently 
besought  her  not  to  reject  his  suit. 

The  deeply  excited  father,  having  perused 

all  this  with  such  equanimity  as  he  then  could  best 
command,  proceeded  to  break  the  seal  of  the  pack- 
age. It  contained  the  daguerreotype  of  a  young 
man  of  decidedly  fine  looks,  with  a  face  of  a  highly 


254  CAP  SHEAF. 

intellectual  cast,  and  a  complexion  that  denoted 
foreign  birth. 

The  clergyman  could  scarcely  contain  his  feel- 
ings. A  man,  however,  of  his  wonted  promptness 
and  resolution,  was  at  no  loss  how  to  proceed.  He 
instantly  sat  down  to  his  table,  and  began  a  letter 
of  the  severest  rebuke  and  most  burning  indigna- 
tion to  the  young  gentleman.  He  assured  him, 
that  he  would  receive  both  his  last  letter  and  his 
miniature  by  the  same  mail  that  bore  him  this 
merited  castigation. 

Mr.  Bellingham,  in  his  mind,  as  yet  declined 
acquainting  his  daughter  with  his  discovery  of  her 
secret;  sagaciously  concluding  that  if  he  could 
himself  effectually  rebuff  the  stranger,  the  purpose 
desired  would  be  attained  equally  well.  By  re- 
ceiving no  more  communications  from  her  admirer, 
Bella  would  very  naturally  conclude  that  he  had 
unaccountably  forsaken  and  forgotten  her. 

This  might  all  have  well  happened,  exactly  as 
her  father  had  designed.  But  Bella  herself  chanced 
to  drop  in  at  the  post-office  not  an  hour  after  her 
father  had  been  there,  and  to  her  chagrin  learned 
that  he  had  carried  away  what  had  just  reached 
her  fictitious  address ! — Of  course  the  postmaster 
had  nothing  to  reveal  of  the  very  industrious  part 
he  took  in  the  matter.  Of  course  not. 

The  poor  girl,  hitherto  feeling  absolutely  secure  in 


A  FROLIC  WITH  FORTUNE.  255 

the  intrenchments  of  her  pseudonym,  rushed  fran- 
tically home  again.  Unobserved  by  any  of  the 
family,  she  entered  her  room,  and,  sitting  down  in 
her  chair,  began  to  wonder  what  it  was  best  to  do. 
— Her  father  even  then  was  engaged  in  excoriating 
the  fine  sensibilities  of  the  distant  lover. 

Just  at  that  moment,  as  the  strangest  of  fortune 
would  have  it,  her  father  was  summoned  below  by 
the  sudden  arrival  of  visitors.  She  heard  his  foot- 
step on  the  stairs,  with  inexpressible  delight ;  and 
when  the  slam  of  the  parlor  door  fell  on  her  ears, 
she  flew  into  his  study.  She  was  determined  to 
know  what  the  character  of  these  two  missives  was, 
and  to  read  and  see  them  with  her  own  eyes. 

Entering  the  quiet  study  of  her  father,  she  was 
startled  to  find  the  objects  of  her  anxious  search 
on  the  table  directly  before  her !  There  was  the 
letter  from  her  passionate  lover, — there  his  own 
"  counterfeit  presentment "  ! 

Hastily  snatching  up  the  latter  first,  she  gazed 
upon  it  with  enraptured  eyes,  and  a  wildly  beating 
heart,  and  pressed  it  with  impulsive  tenderness  to 
her  lips.  She  read  through  the  student's  letter 
with  rapidity  and  excitement.  It  was  only  what 
she  had  expected  from  him. 

Then  she  seized  the  other  letter, — that  of  her 
father.  It  was  not  yet  finished ;  yet  from  what 


256  CAP  SHEAF. 

had  been  written,  she  was  able  to  gather  the  terri- 
ble whole  of  his  stern  purpose. 

Her  mind  was  quite  as  resolute,  however,  as  his. 
Again  entering  her  own  room,  she  sat  down  and 
hastily  penned  a  letter  to  her  lover,  acquainting 
him  with  the  sad  misfortune  that  had  overtaken 
her,  and  detailing  the  fixed  design  of  her  inflexible 
parent.  She  assured  him,  too,  that  she  had  seen 
his  miniature,  and  drank  in  the  full  delight  his 
welcome  letter  yielded  her.  In  addition  to  this, 
she  expressed  a  strong  desire  to  have  an  interview 
with  him  at  the  earliest  moment  possible. 

Hurrying  stealthily  from  the  house,  she  pro- 
ceeded instantly  to  her  bosom  friend,  Ellen,  and 
acquainted  her  with  all  that  had  happened.  A 
brother  of  Ellen  volunteered  his  services,  under  an 
injunction  of  strict  secrecy,  as  bearer  of  this  letter 
of  Bella  to  the  post-office  in  the  neighboring  town, 
to  which  point  the  young  student  had  been  like- 
wise directed  to  address  his  reply.  By  this  activity 
on  Bella's  part,  her  letter  gained  a  whole  day  on 
the  fulminations  of  her  father. 

As  yet,  Mr.  Bellingham  was  ignorant  that  his 
daughter  so  much  as  suspected  his  knowledge  of 
her  secret.  Accordingly,  he  determined  to  act 
without  betraying  to  her  any  special  motive.  He 
encouraged  her  to  pack  off  and  make  a  visit  with 
some  of  his  and  her  friends  in  a  city  not  far  away. 


A  FROLIC   WITH   FORTUNE.  257 

She  was  inwardly  loth  to  go ;  yet  she  felt  that  it 
would  be  her  worst  policy  to  venture  excuse,  or 
attempt  delay.  And  as  soon  thereafter  as  seemed 
to  him  sufficient  time  to  satisfy  Bella  that  she  would 
hear  no  more  from  her  lover,  she  was  sent  away  to 
her  friends. 

The  father  himself  was  the  dupe  !  Bella 

carried  away  with  her  a  fresh  letter  from  her  lover 
in  her  pocket !  It  came  through  the  post-office  of 
the  neighboring  town ! 

She  had  been  absent  from  home  but  a  little  time, 
before  every  arrangement  was  completed  to  bring 
about  at  last  an  interview  with  the  young  student. 
He  would  arrive  on  a  stated  day. 

The  day  came.  The  lover  came.  He 

came,  as  he  hoped,  to  greet  his  future  bride.  He 
reached  the  house  that  had  been  designated,  and 
inquired  of  the  servant  for  her. — On  some  pretext, 
she  had  been  sent  for  by  her  father,  to  return  home 
that  very  day.  His  fond  hopes  he  might  now  feed 
on  the  dry  ashes  of  disappointment. 

Bella  reached  home,  but  only  to  receive  positive 
instructions  from  her  father  to  make  another  jour- 
ney to  a  still  more  distant  city,  and  there  pass  the 
remainder  of  the  winter  with  friends.  Possibly  he 
had  had  no  suspicions  of  her  conduct  since  leaving 
home  the  first  time, — yet  there  was  a  vague  and 
indistinct  fear  brooding  in  his  brain.  It  haunted 


258  CAP  SHEAF. 

him  by  night  and  by  day.  She  was  accordingly  a 
second  time  dispatched  to  friends  at  a  distance,  and 
in  perfect  safety  arrived  among  them. 

A  fortnight  had  elapsed,  and  the  Italian 

youth  was  at  her  feet ! 

For  the  first  time  now  they  met.  He  was  fired 
with  her  beauty,  as  his  soul  had  been  with  her 
sympathies.  Again  he  offered  her  his  hand ;  and 
this  time  he  felt  the  burden  lifted  from  his  heart. 

He  was  a  foreigner,  as  it  appeared,  of  dis- 
tinguished birth  ;  was  possessed  of  great  wealth ; 
had  a  soul  of  the  finest  and  purest  sensibilities  ;  an 
intellect  that  admirably  illustrated  all ;  and  a  per- 
son that  would  not  have  failed  to  recommend  itself 
to  a  woman  predisposed  to  love. 

The  proud  and  unyielding  father  was  at  length 
apprised  of  all,  over  the  united  signatures  of  his 
daughter  and  the  stranger.  Again  plunged  into  a 
vortex  of  terrible  excitement,  he  hastened  at  once 
to  the  place  whither  Bella  had  been  sent,  and  there 
confronted  the  lovers  together!  They,  however, 
were  calm,  self-possessed,  and  determined. 

But  the  interview  was  productive  of  vastly  more 
good  than  could  have  been  foreseen.  By  some 
magical  influence,  the  father  was  brought  over  to 
give  his  unreserved  consent  to  their  desired  union. 
Perhaps  the  sagacious  reader  may  know,  without 
being  told,  what  that  influence  was. 


A  FROLIC  WITH  FORTUNE.  259 

The  young  man  received  his  diploma,  that 

summer ;  and  not  a  great  wnile"afterwards7in  the 
house  of  her  own  father,  the  beautiful  Isabella 
Bellingham  was  united  in  marriage  to  the  choice 
of  her  romance  and  her  heart.  /"  ^-^ 

The  interesting  ceremony  was  performed  in  the 
same  little  parlor  where  Bella  and  Ellen  had  con- 
cocted their  Valentine  scheme,  only  the  winter  be- 
fore. Ellen,  too,  was  Bella's  bridesmaid,  just  as 
she  had  ever  been  her  dearest  and  truest  friend. 
The  happy  pair  immediately  set  sail  for  Italy,  their 
favoring  gales  laden  with  the  prayers  and  blessings 
of  the  yet  deeply-loving  father. 

From  over  his  iron-bowed  spectacles,  the 

inquisitive  glance  of  the  postmaster  still  peers ; 
but  he  has  grown  unaccountably  more  grum,  and 
is  said  by  the  good  village  people  to  find  quite  all 
he  wants  to  do, — in  simply  minding  his  own  busi- 
ness. 


A    COUSIN    FROM    TOWN. 


"  /^OME,  Kate,"  said  Lizzie  Deming  to  her  sister, 

\J  as  she  ran  to  meet  her  in  the  garden,  one  fine 
morning  iu  Spring,  —  "  come,  Kate,  we've  got  to  be- 
stir ourselves  now." 

"Why  so,  Lizzie?"  asked  Kate,  turning  round 
upon  her  sister,  and  scanning  her  features  closely. 
"  What  is  to  happen,  pray  ?" 

"  You  don't  know,  then  ?" 

"  Not  I,  indeed." 

"  Then  listen,  and  let  me  tell  you.  Father  has 
just  told  mother  that  Cousin  Sarah  will  certainly 
be  here  in  a  week,  to  make  a  visit  ;  and  a  week 
soon  slips  away,  you  know." 

"Lizzie,"  replied  her  sister,  after  a  moment's 
thoughtfulness,  —  "  I'm  sorry." 

"Sorry!" 

"Yes;  I'm  sorry,  indeed,  that  she's  coming,"  re- 
iterated Kate. 

"  Why  so,  pray  ?  You  can't  be  sorry  to  see  your 
own  cousin,  can  you  ?" 


A  COUSIN   FROM   TOWN.  261 

"  But  she  don't  seem  like  a  cousin  to  me,"  said 
Kate.  "And  she's  city-bred,  too,  and  takes  such 
airs  to  herself!  Why,  she  will  be  turning  up  her 
nose  at  us  all,  before  she  has  been  here  an  hour. 
You  don't  know  yet  how  very  particular  these 
town-people  are.  And  it's  so  very  long  since  I've 
seen  her,  too, — I  declare  that  I'd  rather  not  see  her 
at  all." 

"  I  know  that  town-people  are  very  apt  to  be  as 
you  say  ;  but  perhaps,  after  all,  it  may  not  happen 
to  be  so  with  Cousin  Sarah,"  pleaded  Lizzie,  in  her 
behalf. 

"  You  don't  know  that  she's  different  from  the 
generality  of  city  people,  do  you,  Lizzie  ?" 

"No;  only  I  can't  help  thinking  she  is  more 
like  ourselves,"  answered  Lizzie.  "But,  at  all 
events,  we  must  get  ready  for  her.  There's  enough 
to  be  done,  I'm  sure." 

"  She  will  have  to  sleep  alone  in  the  large  front 
chamber,"  said  Kate  ;  "  and  the  furniture  must  all 
be  arranged  anew,  and  the  looking-glasses  decorated, 
and — oh,  how  I  wish  we  had  some  of  the  rich  fur- 
niture I  have  seen  at  the  upholsterer's  in  town  !  I 
belie'%  I  could  make  her  think,  when  she  woke 
in  the  morning,  that  she  was  in  her  own  father's 
house  again.  But  we  have  such  old-fashioned 
furniture,  Lizzie !" 

"Well,"  said  the  latter,    "then  with,  what  we 


262  CAP  SHEAF. 

have  we  must  do  the  "best  we  can.  That  is  the 
only  way  left  us." 

The  country-house  of  Mr.  Deming  was  as 

pretty  a  rural  retreat  as  could  anywhere  be  found. 
It  was  built,  to  be  sure,  in  days  before  honest 
country  folk  began  to  dream  that  economy  and 
good  taste  could  have  anything  to  do  with  each 
other, — so  that  the  dwelling  itself  offered  no  topic 
for  architectural  connoisseurs  to  expatiate  very  ex- 
tensively upon.  But  the  grounds  about  the  house 
were  of  all  others  the  loveliest.  I  hardly  think 
myself  adequate  to  their  description. 

The  natural  woodbines,  and  clumps  of  bushes, 
and  wild  creepers,  had  been  faithfully  preserved  in 
the  yard,  and  delicate  and  tasteful  hands  had  train- 
ed them  with  affectionate  care.  Eose-trees  stood  in 
almost  every  angle.  Trumpet-creepers  clambered 
with  the  load  of  their  flowering  wealth  from  pillar 
to  rafter,  and  fringed  the  casements  of  the  windows 
with  long  trails  and  ruffles  of  deep  green. 

In  the  beds  were  hyacinths,  and  anemones,  and 
columbines,  and  a  score  of  other  such  plants  of  the 
garden ;  and  clover-bells,  and  fox-glove,  and  eglan- 
tine run  riot  among  the  dark  grass  that  was  stretch- 
ed like  a  carpet  from  walk  to  walk.  A  few  dwarf 
firs  stood  sentry,  at  respectful  distances  from  each 
other,  —  in  the  dreary  winter  always  promising 


A  COUSIN  FEOM  TOWN.  263 

returning  spring,  and  in  the  dewy  summer  always 
deepening  the  surrounding  green. 

There  was  no  art  in  this,  either;  it  was  all 
nature.  And  that  was  the  reason  why  the  spot 
was  so  charming.  Its  chief  beauty  was  its  simpli- 
city. Serpentine  walks  would  have  failed  entirely 
of  the  effect  of  these  little  natural  avenues,  that 
twisted,  and  turned,  and  bent,  wherever  a  tree  or  a 
bush  stood  in  their  way.  Borders  of  well-trimmed 
box  could  never  have  produced  one-half  so  pleasing 
an  illusion  to  the  eye,  as  did  the  thick  turf  that 
seemed  to  have  been  purposely  rolled  up  on  either 
side  of  the  walks.  And  all  through  the  long  Sum- 
mer days, — those  golden  hours  of  dreams  and  rev- 
eries,— the  bees  kept  up  their  industrious  humming 
in  the  flowers,  and  the  birds  their  melodies  in  the 
tree-tops.  Butterflies,  in  gayest  kirtles,  fluttered 
over  the  green  grass,  as  if  they  were  dancing  flow- 
ers, keeping  time  with  the  melody  of  the  birds, — 
and  the  waters, — and  the  growing  vegetation.  And 
what  the  wonder,  then,  that  this  place  seemed  an 
Elysium  to  the  red-cheeked  girls  who  haunted  ifs 
quiet  nooks  ?  What  life  in  town  that  could  stand 
a  moment  in  comparison  with  this  full,  free,  joyous 
life,  in  such  a  sequestered  corner  in  the  country  ? 

-  It  was,  indeed,  a  busy  week  with  the  rustic 
beauties,  for  they  were  especially  ambitious  in  their 
preparations.  They  were  bent  on  satisfying  their 


264  CAP   SHEAF. 

more  refined  cousin  that  they  were  not  altogether 
clowns,  and  boors,  and  beggars,  in  the  country. 
They  left  no  stone  unturned.  Scrubbing  brushes 
grew  into  intimate  acquaintance  with  windows, 
walls,  and  floors ;  scouring  could  have  made  no 
more  impression  upon  them. 

Carpets  came  up  in  haste,  and  were  spread  again. 
Brasses  were  polished  all  over  the  house,  till  one 
could  as  well  employ  them  for  mirrors  as  the  look- 
ing-glasses that  were  tilted  over  from  the  walls. 
The  little  parlor  was  put  in  perfect  trim,  and  the 
parlor-chamber,  as  they  themselves  averred,  looked 
in  apple-pie  order.  The  entire  house  was  obliged 
to  submit  to  a  hasty,  but  thorough  renovation. 
There  was  no  other  way.  And  then  the  beds  in 
the  yard  were  carefully  weeded,  till  not  a  spear  of 
useless  vegetation  thrust  its  point  above  the  mellow 
mould.  And  the  grass  was  carefully  raked  out, 
and  the  old  dried  leaves  stirred  from  their  hiding 
places,  where  they  had  fruitlessly  counted  on  a 
snug  summer's  nap.  And  the  walks  were  swept 
clean,  till  they  looked  almost  as  hard  and  smooth 
as  the  oaken  floor. 

On  the  evening  before  the  expected  arrival,  Kate 
and  Lizzie  sat  down  together  in  the  wainscotted 
parlor,  as  if  to  catch  a  brief  rest,  and  to  take  a 
review  of  the  labor  they  had  successfully  perform- 
ed. They  had  filled  the  vases  on  the  low  mantel 


A   COUSIN   FEOM   TOWN.  266 

with  beautiful  flowers,  freshly  plucked  from  the 
garden,  and  the  open  fire-place  was  decorated  with 
boughs  of  evergreen,  and  branches  of  smoke-tree 
and  asparagus.  Only  two  pictures  hung  against 
the  walls,  and  they  were  paintings  of  their  dear 
parents.  They  hardly  dared  think  the  execution 
rude,  or  unfinished,  so  devotedly  loved  they  the 
originals. 

Their  elder  brother  Paul, — a  noble,  free-hearted 
young  man,  with  a  strong  dash  of  the  romantic  in  his 
nature, — was  in  the  room  too  ;  and  all  three  began 
talking  freely  upon  the  great  event  of  the  morrow, 
— the  arrival  of  their  cousin  Sarah.  She  would 
probably  arrive  in  the  stage  by  nine  o'clock. 

"  I  hope  she  will  find  something  to  please  her," 
remarked  Kate,  fatigued  with  the  very  recollection 
of  her  long  week's  labor. 

"  Why,  Kate,"  asked  Paul ;  "  do  you  imagine 
she  is  at  all  hard  to  suit  ?" 

"No  more  than  city  people  generally  are," 
replied  Kate. 

"I  imagine  she  must  be  awful  particular,"  re- 
joined Paul. 

"And  I  know  that  she  is,"  chimed  in  Lizzie ; 
"  yet  for  all  that,  I  hope  to  assist  her  about  enjoy- 
ing herself." 

,     "  Why,"  said  Kate,  "  what  sort  of  creatures  do 

you  suppose  she  imagines  we  are?     Satyrs?  or 

12 


266  CAP  SHEAF. 

griffins  ?  or  bears  f  Do  you  think  she  has  any  idea 
that  country  people  can  be  altogether  civilized  ?" 

Lizzie  laughed  outright,  and  said  she  was  sure 
she  didn't  know. 

Paul,  however,  responded  in  a  more  jovial  way ; 
and  said  he  rigidly  believed  that  she  did  think  they 
were  considerably  below  human ;  which  remark 
Kate  gladly  caught  up,  and  half-seriously  preached 
therefrom  for  quite  fifteen  minutes. 

"  I  hope,  at  least,"  added  she,  "  that  she  will  not 
laugh  in  our  very  faces,  as  she  discovers  our  fail- 
ings!" 

Morning   came   at  last ;    the    momentous 

morning  of  cousin  Sarah's  arrival.  The  air  was 
pure  and  bracing.  The  sun  was  bright,  and  never 
so  golden.  The  trees,  and  the  flowers,  and  the  air, 
were  full  of  gushing  melody.  The  little  parlor 
windows  had  been  opened  early,  and  the  blinds 
thrown  back,  that  the  odors  from  the  clustering 
flowers  might  float  deliciously  into  the  apartment. 
The  parlor  chamber  was  bedecked  freshly  with 
leaves,  and  sprays,  and  buds,  and  blossoms,  as  for 
some  gay  festival.  And  the  pillows;  and  the  coun- 
terpane upon  the  little  bed,  were  as  white  as  the 
driven  snow,  and  not  a  wrinkle  upon  either.  How 
could  even  the  most  fastidious  lady  from  town  fail 
to  be  enchanted  with  such  preparations  for  her  ? 


A   COUSIN   FROM  TOWN.  267 

The  stage  was  heard,  at  length,  on  the  road  below, 
among  the  woods  that  skirted  it  on  either  side ;  and 
the  girls  hurried  timidly  to  the  door,  their  young 
hearts  all  in  an  uproar.  They  pressed  their  hands 
upon  their  sides  for  relief. 

Mr.  Deming  walked  down  to  the  gate,  to  be  at 
hand  when  the  stage  rolled  up  ;  and  Paul  followed 
at  a  respectful  distance  after,  to  be  ready  to  assist 
about  getting  off  the  baggage.  And  the  girls  still 
stood  peeping  timidly  through  the  thick-leaved 
vine  that  screened  the  door. 

The  coach  stopped  just  before  the  gate.  For 
quite  a  moment,  the  sisters  neither  saw  nor  heard 
anything  from  their  place  of  concealment.  They 
began  to  half  imagine  and  half  hope,  that  their 
cousin  had  really  not  come  at  all. 

But  on  that  point  they  were  suddenly  undeceiv- 
ed ;  for  they  unexpectedly  caught  the  loud  and 
ringing  tones  of  a  female  voice,  so  rich  and  so 
musical,  that  it  seemed  to  them  more  like  the  snatch 
of  a  song  than  anything  else, — and  then  distin- 
guished the  welcome  words : — 

"  Uncle  Deming,  how  do  you  do?" 

They  were  thrown  off  their  guard  entirely  ; 

and  impulsively  pushed  their  heads  through  the 
place  of  their  concealment,  only  to  behold  their 
supposed  cousin  thrusting  her  gloved  hand  out  of 
the  coach  window,  and  shaking  that  of  her  uncle 


268  CAP  SHEAF. 

most  heartily.  And  then  she  did  the  same  thing 
with  their  brother  Paul,  who,  it  might  in  this  place 
be  admitted,  took  a  huge  liking  to  her  free-and-easy 
manner. 

The  door  was  opened  and  she  alighted.  Her 
uncle  then  took  another  shaking,  this  time  from 
both  her  little  hands ;  and  Paul  stood  ready  for  a 
repetition  of  the  same  process.  Mr.  Deming  con- 
gratulated her  on  so  safe  and  pleasant  a  ride,  and 
in  his  simple  and  hearty  way  welcomed  her  to  their 
country  home.  And  while  they  stood  there  to- 
gether, waiting  to  see  the  driver  take  off  the  bag- 
gage she  had  brought,  she  asked  not  less  than  half 
a  dozen  times  after  her  aunt  and  the  girls.  The 
latter  heard  it  all,  and  exchanged  silent  glances  in 
the  door. 

"  "We  must  certainly  go  out  to  meet  her,"  whis- 
pered Lizzie. 

Her  father  was  conducting-her  up  the  walk,  and 
Lizzie  stepped  briskly  across  the  piazza,  without 
another  word. 

"  This  is  Lizzie,  Miss  Sarah,"  said  Mr.  Deming, 
introducing  her. 

"  My  dear  cousin  Lizzie !"  exclaimed  Sarah, 
advancing  hastily  to  her,  and  saluting  her  with  a 
most  affectionate  kiss ;  "I  am,  indeed,  very  glad  to 
see  you  again  !" — and  she  continued  holding  her 
hand  within  her  own,  and  gazing  endearingly  into 


A  COUSIN  FROM  TOWN.  269 

her  eyes,  as  if  she  had  just  found  a  long-lost  sister, 
instead  of  a  country  cousin  whom  she  really  knew 
but  little  personally  of.  "I  hope  you  are  very  well, 
Lizzie,"  continued  she;  "and  how  is  your  dear 
sister  Kate? — and  your  good  mother?  I  hope  I 
shall  find  you  all  well." 

Lizzie  stemmed  the  unbroken  torrent  of  her 
inquiries  and  exclamations  as  best  she  could,  lead- 
ing her  cousin  along  to  the  door.  There  she  was 
met  by  both  Kate  and  her  mother ;  and  there  the 
interchange  of  free  and  joyous  feelings  suffered 
nothing  from  diminution.  Sarah  said  that  she  was 
delighted  beyond  measure  with  the  thought  of 
reaching  so  lovely  a  spot;  and  her  eyes  seemed 
already — if  one  could  have  judged  from  her  talk — 
to  have  scanned  the  minutest  beauties  of  the 
grounds.  Her  spirits  were  towering.  She  laughed 
while  she  talked,  and  talked  while  she  laughed. 
She  felt  so  sure,  she  said,  of  enjoying  herself  in 
the  country,  that  she  knew  she  never  could  regret 
having  come.  And  she  began  soberly  to  lament 
the  long  lapse  of  years  during  which  she  had  never 
been  out  among  her  relatives.  So  gayly  did  she 
run  on,  her  cousins  scarcely  knew  what  was  to  be 
made  of  her.  And  when  she  sat  down  by  the  little 
parlor  window,  it  seemed  as  if  language  were  very 
poorly  able  to  convey  the  overflow  of  her  delight. 


270  CAP  SHEAF. 

She  could  think  of  no  place  with  which  to  compare 
the  place,  but  Heaven. 

She  spoke  so  lovingly  of  the  flowers, — and  the 
fresh  grass, — and  the  green  leaves, — and  the  music 
of  the  birds  and  bees.  Her  tongue  run  on  without 
control  about  the  snug,  cosey,  delightful  parlor 
they  were  in  ;  and  she  felt  very  sure  they  must  be 
so  happy  there  together,  and  no  one  to  disturb 
them,  either.  What  a  charm  had  the  gadding 
honeysuckles, — and  the  climbing  creepers, — and 
the  loaded  rose-trees, — in  her  delighted  eyes  !  How 
full  of  sweet  odors  was  the  breeze  that  floated 
gently  in  at  the  window  !  What  a  dreamy  quietude 
in  the  humming  of  the  bees ;  and  what  bewildering 
visions  in  the  wanton  butterflies  ! 

Over  and  over  again,  she  told  them  all  her  hopes, 
— all  her  preferences, — all  her  wishes ;  and  her 
cousins  must  certainly  have  either  thought  her  a 
perfect  Madge  Wildfire,  or  the  most  honest-hearted 
little  beauty  that  had  ever  sat  in  the  shadow  of 
their  favorite  honeysuckles. 

The  day  went  off  as  summer  days  usually  go  off 
in  the  country; — no  rattling  of  vehicles,  —  no 
tramping  of  feet, — no  crowding  of  passengers,  all 
the  day  long.  It  was  a  new  life  to  her ;  calmer, 
sweeter,  purer,  than  the  life  she  had  just  cast  off. 
Her  spirits  immediately  confessed  the  change.  Her 


A  COUSIN   FROM  TOWN.  271 

countenance  visibly  betrayed  it.  Her  own  heart 
told  her  that  she  had  suddenly  become  another 
being. 

She  would  follow  the  girls  into  the  kitchen  ;  and 
no  protests  from  her  aunt  could  keep  her  out  of 
the  sweet-smelling  dairy.  She  asked  them  all  how 
many  cows  they  kept,  and  how  much  butter  and 
cheese  they  made.  She  played  with  the  old  house- 
dog, as  he  lay  in  the  shade  just  without  the  back 
door ;  and  ran  off  by  herself  to  examine  the  secrets 
of  the  poultry-yard.  No  delight  could  exceed 
hers,  at  the  sight  of  the  young  chickens,  and  geese, 
and  ducks,  that  had  hardly  broken  the  shell.  She 
stood  by  the  hour  among  them,  dealing  them  dough, 
or  plumping  the  little  downy  ducks  into  the  huge 
trough  that  sufficed  them  for  a  pond.  And  when 
at  last  she  had  seen  all,  back  she  ran  into  the  house 
again,  full  of  her  narrative  of  the  many  delightful 
wonders  she  had  visited.  Never  was  there  such  a 
place  before.  She  declared  she  would  willingly 
stay  there  all  her  days.  And  the  girls  would  look 
vacantly  into  her  arch  face  as  she  said  it,  as  if  they 
could  not  believe  her  really  in  earnest. 

Before  nightfall,  she  had  gone  over  every  part  of 
the  house,  thrusting  her  head  into  every  corner 
and  angle  from  garret  to  cellar.  And  when  even- 
ing came  on,  and  they  proposed  retiring  for  the 
night,  she  astonished  them  still  more  than  ever  by 


272  CAP  SHEAF. 

declaring  she  wanted  to  sleep  in  the  little  box  of  a 
bedroom  that  overlooked  the  porch  !  She  said  it 
was  just  such  a  charming  little  room  as  she  always 
wanted  for  her  own  ;  and  they  had  to  assent  to  her 
preference,  although  the  parlor-chamber  had  been 
prepared  with  so  much  care  for  her.  The  room  to 
which  she  had  taken  such  an  unaccountable  liking, 
had  scarcely  received  their  attention  at  all.  The 
girls  felt  mortified  at  their  strange  situation. 

Long  after  Kate  and  Lizzie  Deming  had  gone  to 
bed,  they  lay  awake  discussing  the  strange  disap- 
pointment they  had  felt  in  their  cousin's  character. 
She  had,  in  a  moment  as  it  were,  broken  down  all 
the  barriers  of  their  prejudices,  and  even  seemed 
to  feel  much  more  at  home  there  than  they  did 
themselves.  She  was  a  half-riddle  to  them. 

•"  I  supposed  she  was  so  particular"  said 

Kate. 

"  I  know  you  did,  sister,"  replied  Lizzie ;  "  and 
I  am  glad  enough  we  are  so  very  agreeably  disap- 
pointed. What  a  sweet  girl  she  is,  to  be  sure  !" 

"  But  I  wonder  at  her  choice  of  that  little  band- 
box to  sleep  in." 

"  I've  heard  that  fine  ladies  are  apt  to  be  romantic 
at  times,"  rejoined  Lizzie. 

"Yes,"  said  Kate,  "and  so  have  I ;  but  where's 
the  romance  in  that?  If  she  was  romantic,  she 
wouldn't  be  so  crazy  over  all  the  little  trifles  about 


A   COUSIN   FROM   TOWN.  273 

this  place.  Eomantic  ladies,  I've  read  in  tales,  are 
always  running  away  with  foreign  counts,  and 
earls,  and  lords.  They  don't  take  up  with  such 
simple  pleasures  as  our  place  affords.  I'll  tell  you 
what  I  think  about  it,  Lizzie." 

"  Well,  I  should  be  glad  to  know." 

"  She's  an  odd  little  creature,  then.  That's  all  I 
can  possibly  make  out  of  it." 

And  with  so  very  sagacious  a  conclusion  in  their 
heads,  they  fell  fast  asleep. 

Next  morning,  they  were  up  early,  bustling 

here  and  there  about  the  house  at  their  usual  avo- 
cations. Kate,  who  had  not  yet  gone  down  stairs, 
ventured  to  tap  lightly  at  her  cousin's  door,  hoping 
she  might  then  be  awake.  But  her  knock  receiv- 
ing no  answer,  she  opened  it  cautiously  and  looked 
in. 

Her  cousin  had  gone !  Kate  stood  a  moment 
stupefied.  Sarah  had  actually  risen  before  her. 
She  looked  once  more  through  the  little  room,  loth 
to  believe  her  eyes ;  but  the  gay  and  joyous  bird 
had  flown.  Kate,  in  her  astonishment,  thought 
she  might  have  been  just  as  likely  to  fly  out  through 
the  open  window,  as  through  the  door. 

She  ran  down  stairs,  half  ashamed  of  the  thought 
of  being  beaten  at  early  rising — a  feat  supposed  to 
be  best  performed  in  the  country — by  her  cousin. 
She  looked  for  her  in  the  dining-room, — in  the 


274  CAP  SHEAF. 

kitchen, — in  the  parlor, — on  the  piazza, — in  the 
garden ;  but  she  was  nowhere  to  be  found.  She 
had  given  all  of  them  the  slip.  Even  Mrs.  Deming 
had  not  herself  seen  her,  and  attempted  to  excuse 
her  early  hours  by  insinuating  a  flightiness  in  her 
natural  disposition. 

But  Kate  was  determined  to  protract  her  search, 
and  bring  the  truant  back  again.  So  she  strolled 
through  the  garden  ;  and  over  the  yard ;  and  looked 
into  every  dingle  where  she  thought  she  might,  in 
her  frolicsome  spirit,  have  hidden ;  and  twice  or 
thrice  called  her  loudly  by  name.  But  no  cousin 
made  her  appearance  anywhere. 

She  resolved  to  go  to  the  poultry-yard  ;  but 
Sarah  was  not  there.  To  the  piggery;  but  no 
Sarah  there,  either.  Nor  at  the  dovecote.  Nor 
about  the  barn.  And  at  last  she  essayed  the  barn- 
yard itself.  The  patient  cows  stood  there,  the  dew 
drizzling  on  their  sleek  coats,  and  looked  up  at  her 
with  their  mild  eyes  as  she  approached ;  but  there 
was  no  cousin  among  them.  For  all  that,  however, 
she  might  have  been  there  ;  and  the  likelihood  was 
that  she  had.  And  just  at  that  moment,  too,  Lizzie 
came  running  up,  all  out  of  breath,  her  cheeks 
glowing  like  the  eastern  sky. 

"  Have  you  found  her  ?"  impatiently  asked  Kate. 

"  Why,  no  ;  I  came  to  see  if  you  had  I" 

The  two  sisters  struck  off  down  the  lane, 


A  COUSIN  FROM  TOWN.  275 

* 

and  came  to  one  of  the  cattle-paths  that  threaded 
the  way  to  the  distant  pastures.  They  went  on, 
one  behind  the  other,  for  a  few  rods,  and  Lizzie 
suddenly  broke  the  silence  : 

"  Kate,  look  there  !  As  sure  as  I  live,  there  she 
is,  coming  up  from  the  pasture»with  Paul !" 

Kate  did  look,  and  was  speechless  with  astonish- 
ment. Sarah  was  slowly  walking  along  up  with 
their  brother. 

The  moment  she  espied  her  cousins,  she  set  out 
on  a  flying  run  towards  them,  and  reached  them 
before  they  could  fairly  recover  from  their  surprise. 
A  pair  of  boots  encased  her  feet  and  ankles,  afford- 
ing them  abundant  protection  from  the  dew  that 
hung  upon  the  grass ;  and  with  one  of  her  hands, 
white  as  the  bud  of  a  hawthorn,  she  held  the  gath- 
ered skirts  of  her  morning  robe.  A  healthy  glow 
suffused  her  face,  and  her  expressive  eyes  swam 
with  delight.  A  fairer  picture  of  a  living  nymph 
could  not  anywhere  have  been  found. 

"Good  morning,  girls!"  exclaimed  she,  much 
before  she  reached  them.  "  Oh,  you  don't  know 
what  a  lovely  walk  I've  had  with  Cousin  Paul ! — 
He  has  shown  me  the  cattle,  and  the  sheep ;  and  I 
have  fed  the  poultry  with  him  ;  and  set  the  little 
ducks  to  swimming  in  the  trough ;  and  counted 
the  dear  little  pigs ; — and — would  you  believe  it ! 
— I've  tried  to  help  him  milk  the  cows !  Oh,  we 


276  CAP  SHEAF. 

* 

have  had  such  a  grand  time ! — and  you  were  not 
up,  either !  That  was  capital,  wasn't  it  ?  7  beat 
my  cousins  at  early  rising! — But  I  declare,  I  shall 
never  forget  this  morning.  The  pastures  look  so 
beautifully ;  and  the  grass  is  full  of  diamonds ;  and 
great  spider-webs  are  strung  along  from  one  tall 
grass-spire  to  another,  like  little  woven  blankets  of 
gossamer,  to  catch  the  dew  over  night ;  and  the 
lambs  have  had  such  a  frolic  with  us  over  the 
fence ;  and  every  thing  about  here  is  so  beautiful ! 
Oh,  I  could  indeed  be  happy  to  be  hera  all  the  time !" 

Kate  smiled,  and  said  she  was  sure  that  she 
wished  she  could  stay  with  them ;  and  Lizzie  re- 
peated the  wish  in  a  not  very  different  form.  Paul 
took  a  secret  delight  in  every  syllable  he  heard. 

They  had  a  gay  breakfast-hour  over  their 

fresh  eggs,  and  golden-hued  butter,  and  snow-white 
bread,  and  luscious,  clotted  cream ;  and  many  were 
the  starts  and  surprises  their  gleeful  city  cousin 
gave  them,  as  she  told  them  seriously  what  most 
delighted  her,  and  how  she  thought  she  should  be 
most  happy. 

The  rout  of  their  prejudices  was  complete.  Be 
fore  she  had  been  there  many  days,  Sarah  made 
them  all  love  her  like  a  sister.  And  the  whole  of 
her  visit,  which  lasted  quite  a  month,  was  but  a 
constant  round  of  delight  to  them, — ever  fresh  and 
ever  new. 


A   COUSIN   FROM   TOWN.  277 

They  were  sorrowing  sadly  in  the  little 

parlor,  on  the  evening  of  her  departure ;  and  almost 
wished,  in  the  selfishness  of  their  grief,  that  she 
had  not  come  at  all.  They  would  not  then  have 
felt  her  loss. 

Paul  happened  to  enter  the  room,  exactly  at  the 
height  of  their  sorrow,  and  sat  down  seriously  to 
condole  with  his  desolate  sisters.  He  had  himself 
taken  many  a  pleasant  stroll  alone  with  his  fair 
cousin,  and  regretted  her  departure,  he  said,  quite 
as  much  as  they.  And  with  the  design  of  com- 
posing the  turbulence  of  their  grief,  he  bent  over 
and  whispered  to  them  in  a  low  and  confidential 
tone, — "  Girls,  don't  sorrow  too  much  for  her  loss. 
You  are  going  to  have  your  dear  cousin  for  a  sister  /" 


THE  OLD  WOMAN  OF  THE  COUKT. 

A  CARRIAGE  was  never  known  to  enter 
there. 

It  was  a  dilapidated  Court ;  with  old,  crazy, 
leaning  houses  on  either  side.  There  could  be  no 
snugger  shelter  from  the  world  conceived.  And 
yet  it  was  a  world  by  itself;  boasting  its  own  indi- 
genous population,  its  peculiar  social  rules,  its  ex- 
cessively grotesque  points  and  standards  of  morals, 
and  its  well-observed  customs  and  formulas. 

The  strange  houses,  to  one  looking  up  from  the 
ground,  seemed  nodding  at  each  other,  in  a  sort  of 
fantastic  recognition ;  as  if  the  one  would  say  that 
'  it  embosomed  quite  as  much  happiness  as  its  neigh- 
Dor  over  the  way ;  and  as  if  the  other  would  reply, 
that  there  was  less  room  for  discussing  that  subject 
numerically,  than  abstractly.  And  so  they  seemed 
to  keep  nodding,  while  the  little  windows  of  their 
rude  and  lofty  gables  winked  and  blinked  busily, 
as  the  morning  or  evening  sun  fell  upon  their  deci- 
mated panes. 


THE   OLD   WOMAN   OF  THE   COURT.  279 

There  was  but  little  intercourse  that  could  strictly 
be  called  intimate,  carried  on  between  the  different 
occupants  of  the  Court ;  and  it  could  not,  perhaps, 
have  well  been  otherwise.  They  had  too  hard  a 
fight  to  wage  with  the  world,  to  give  up  even  a  nar- 
row margin  of  their  time  to  pleasure  among  them- 
selves. All  the  pleasure  they  knew,  they  caught 
by  furtive  glimpses,  at  points  far  apart.  They  had 
a  close  community  of  interest,  in  that  they  were  all 
enlisted  in  the  same  ranks  ;  but  no  further.  Nay, 
there  could  not  be  sturdier  haters  than  they,  when 
one  had  fallen  on  a  trifling  lump  of  fortune  that  all 
the  rest  declared  belonged  to  them  as  well. 

Youth  was  chained  in  the  same  gang  with  Age. 
There  were  cheeks  in  that  Court,  with  the  sun  still 
warm  and  mellow  in  them  ;  and  cheeks,  too, 
through  which  dissipation  and  care  had  plowed 
many  a  broad  and  deep  furrow.  Even  the  younger 
part  of  the  population  seemed  quite  old.  Little 
difference  of  years  showed  itself  between  them  and 
their  elders.  Girls  that  might  have  made  sylphs, 
and  crones  that  bent  their  backs,  and  chattered 
their  jaws,  and  scoured  the  streets  for  garbage, — 
both  wore  the  stamp  of  the  same  seal.  Poverty, — 
bitter  Poverty  was  their  landlord.  He  held  all 
their  scanty  apparel  in  mortgage.  He  pinched 
their  bodies ;  contracted  their  cheeks ;  threw  the 
film  over  their  eyes  ;  and  purpled  their  flesh,  where 


280  CAP  SHEAF. 

he  had  not  already  stained  and  worn  it  like  old 
vellum. 

It  was  a  queer  community, — that  old  town  court. 
It  had  its  "  ragged  regiment"  of  boys  and  girls, 
who  tottled  about  insecurely  from  one  door-step  to 
another.  It  had  its  army  of  grown  men  and 
women,  who  crowded  upon  the  narrow  walks,  yet 
strove  hard  to  keep  out  of  each  other's  way. 
Humanity  was  packed  and  stowed  away  in  the  sev- 
eral stories  of  its  edifices,  like  goods  upon  tiers  of 
shelves.  It  swarmed  at  stated  hours  in  the  court, 
as  mites  riot  in  a  Cheshire  cheese.  It  hung  its 
head  out  at  the  upper  windows,  as  if  the  buildings, 
like  heaped  granaries,  were  full  to  bursting.  It 
echoed  its  various  attributes  in  all  the  musical  notes 
of  the  legitimate  diapason. 

They  gathered  there  at  night  from  the  town 
streets, — shriveled  women,  and  sturdy  men, — like 
currents  of  blood  '  driving  backward  through  the 
veins  to  the  heart.  On  a  summer  night,  the 
place  was  a  small  Bedlam,  for  its  voices.  Singing, 
crying,  and  wrangling, — all  went  on  together. 
Smokes  from  vile  pipes  tainted  the  air,  till  the  very 
lungs  refused  it  for  sustenance.  Oaths  thickened 
on  the  hearing,  till  pure  English  was  lost  in  the 
jumble.  And  once  in  a  long  interval,  peals  of 
laughter  took  their  part  in  the  strange  din ;  but 
there  was  no  ring  in  them ;  no  silver.  They  came 


THE   OLD   WOMAN   OF   THE   COUET.  281 

not  from  crowing  lungs,  healthy  with  life.  They 
rolled  not  out  from  clear  pipes.  They  were  inhu- 
man peals  of  laughter ;  besotted  ;  hideous. 

An  old  woman,  whom  nobody  knew  by  name, 
lived  in  the  court.  Everybody  knew  her  person, 
and  nearly  all  had  come  to  the  place  since  she  had 
herself.  She  was  reverenced  as  the  oldest  inhabi- 
tant. She  was  the  female  Nestor  of  the  locality. 
Yet  she  had  no  acquaintances,  and  seemed  to  have 
religiously  resolved  to  admit  none  to  her  inti- 
macy. 

As  she  wended  her  way  home  at  night,  men  and 
women  stared  at  her  from  the  ground  windows  and 
the  doors,  and  the  children  turned  about  and  walk- 
ed after  her.  But,  lawless  little  Huns  that  they 
were,  they  offered  her  no  insults.  They  did  not  so 
much  as  tug  at  her  scant  dress.  To  treat  her  per- 
son with  respect,  was  a  part  of  the  religion  that  had 
come  down  to  them  from  their  fathers  and  mothers. 
And  silently  and  speechlessly  this  old  woman 
threaded  the  narrow  arm  of  the  street,  whether 
she  went  out  to  her  mysterious  occupations  in  the 
morning,  or  returned  from  them  to  her  shelter  late 
at  evening.  She  was  a  riddle  to  them,  riddles 
though  they  themselves  were  to  others  of  honester 
callings.  She  was  a  Gnome  in  their  superstitious 
eyes.  A  strange  mist  hung  about  her,  through 
which  they  could  not  see  to  read  her  hidden  char- 


282  .        CAP  SHEAF. 

acter.  And  so  they  all,  by  common  consent,  fore- 
bore  to  apply  to  her  the  same  measures  and  tests 
that  were  so  rigidly  employed  by  them  upon  erery 
individual  who  dwelt  there. 

They  agreed  among  themselves  to  call  her  Aunt 
Deborah;  and  by  that  name  she  went.  Nephews 
and  nieces  of  the  same  blood  could  not  have  paid 
their  Aunt  any  more  hearty  reverence.  The  name 
she  tacitly  accepted,  ratifying  its  application  to  her 
repeatedly  by  heeding  it  when  called.  So  Aunt 
Deborah  continued  her  quiet  and  unobtrusive  ways 
among  the  very  unquiet  and  braggart  people  that 
hived  in  this  narrow  little  court.  When  she 
entered  the  outer  door  of  the  building  in  which 
she  lived,  none  knew  whither  she  went  to  secrete 
herself.  That  seemed  to  be  the  last  of  her,  till  she 
made  her  appearance  in  the  court  again,  in  the 
morning. 

There  was  a  rumor  among  the  busy  population 
that  Aunt  Deborah  had  not  made  her  appearance 
for  many  days  among  them.  It  was  a  strange 
rumor,  and  calculated  to  excite  general  inquiry  and 
alarm.  Some  said  she  had  gone  off  into  the  streets 
at  morning,  and  never  returned.  Some  whispered 
that  she  had  come  to  a  violent  death  at  her  own 
hands.  And  some  wondered  whether  she  might 
not  be  sick.  The  latter  class  succeeded  in  pushing 
their  inquiry  to  a  practical  boundary,  and  found, 


THE    OLD   WOMAN   OF  THE   COURT.  283 

true  enough,  that  she  was  shut  up  closely  in  her 
room.  Many  went  to  offer  their  services,  their 
humanity  suddenly  shining  out  through  the  cloud 
that  wrapped  itself  about  them. 

But  she  saw  only  few  at  first,  and  afterwards 
refused  to  admit,  any  to  her  presence.  She  seemed 
displeased  that  they  had  found  her  hiding-place. 
She  felt  like  a  mole,  and  dreaded  to  be  disturbed 
in  her  secret  burrowings.  And  at  length  all  stop- 
ped going  to  her  room,  until  they  came  to  forget 
her  altogether.  This,  however,  required  but  a  few 
days,  for  they  fed  their  excitement  on  whatever 
topic  came  next.  They  were  a  people  that  had 
little  dealings  with  the  past.  Their  topics  of  talk 
changed  with  each  tobacco-whiff  from  their  mouths. 
Whatever  now  was,  filled  their  minds.  I  am  cer- 
tain that  their  characteristics  would  furnish  matter 
enough  to  make  a  pleasant  and  respectable  volume. 

She  had  alternately  lain  upon  her  coarse  bed, 
and  sat  in  her  large  chair,  for  several  days.  It  was 
just  the  setting  in  of  Winter,  and  a  bitter  begin- 
ning it  was,  too.  The  ground  was  frozen  as  hard 
as  the  pavements  themselves.  A  storm  was  brew-' 
ing  in  the  sky,  and  when  she  walked  to  her  narrow 
and  low  window,  she  could  see  it  for  herself.  Only 
a  square  foot  of  sky  was  visible ;  but  the  clouds 
were  scudding  swiftly  across.  They  were  sullen 


284  CAP  SHEAF. 

snow-clouds.  She  shuddered  and  shivered,  and  her 
teeth  rattled  together,  as  she  looked  up  at  them, 
and  then  walked  back  thoughtfully  to  her  chair. 

Ever  and  anon,  she  muttered  something  to  her- 
self, as  she 'drew  an -old  cloak  closer  about  her. 
The  syllables  were  incoherent  and  indistinct.  They 
could  be  made  only  to  mean  something  about  some 
one  who  was  missing.  Perhaps  she  was  expecting 
to  see  him  again.  Perhaps  she  was  reproving  her- 
self,—  scourging  her  woman's  heart,  because  she 
had  at  some  indefinite  time  committed  a  great 
wrong;  and  was  now  expiating  it.  She  would 
even  wring  her  hands ;  and  large  tears  could  be 
seen  dimming  her  eyes. 

In  another  part  of  the  town,  a  man  of  sub- 
stance— both  corporeally  and  pecuniarily — had  just 
put  on  his  coat  to  go  home  for  the  night.  It  might 
not  have  been  a  minute  before  or  after  the  old 
tenant  of  the  court  stepped  feebly  to  her  window, 
and  looked  up  into  the  square  foot  of  leaden  sky. 
Even  if  it  were  not,  no  one  certainly  could  think 
it  a  very  remarkable  coincidence. 

He  had  just  settled  himself  in  his  warm  garment, 
and  was  beginning  to  button  it  about  his  ample 
form.  He  turned  his  eye  again  upon  his  clerk,  and 
a  new  thought  struck  him. 

"  Charles,"  said  he  to  the  young  man  with  a  quill 


THE   OLD  WOMAN   OF  THE   COURT.  285 

behind  his  ear,  "  have  you  ever  finished  the  collec- 
tions in  the  court  ?  You  know  there  were  some 
tenants  there  who  were  behindhand." 

"No,  sir,"  he  answered.  "I  sent  out  the"  col- 
lector only  yesterday,  to  see  what  I  conld  do  ;  but 
I  didn't  get  much  encouragement  from  the  account 
he  gave  me." 

"  Well,  what  did  he  report  ?"  asked  his  employer, 
now  turning  round  fully  upon  him. 

"  Some  he  couldn't  find  at  home : " 

"No,  never  at  home  when  the  rent  is  due!"  ex- 
claimed the  master  of  the  rent-roll. 

"  Some  said  they  could  get  nothing  to  eat, — much 
less,  to  pay  for  rent;  — 

"The  scoundrels!  how  impudent  they  grow, 
every  day  I  humor  them !  It  shall  be  stopped ! 
I'll  have  my  own  way  now !" — and  the  very  em- 
phatic gesture  that  illustrated  this  speech,  was  a 
stormy  stamp  with  his  foot.  He  buttoned  his  coat 
higher  and  tighter, — quite  to  his  throat. 

"  And  there  was  one,"  continued  the  young  man, 
"  who  complained  of  sickness." 

"Sickness!  More  like,  drunkenness!  Who  is 
he?" 

"  It  was  a  woman  " 

"A  woman,  hey?"  repeated  the  gentleman. 
"  What  did  he  say  of  her  besides  ?" 

"  Nothing,  except  that  she  said  she  was  sick,  and 


286  CAP   SHEAF. 

could  not  get  the  money  together  till  she  was  well 
enough  to  go  about." 

"I'll  have  no  more  of  this,"  replied  the  gentle- 
man, with  much  spirit.  "  I'll  stop  it  where  it  is. 
I  may  as  well  lose  one  way  as  another.  Tell  Eichard, 
when  he  comes  in,  to  go  to  every  one  of  these  back- 
ward tenants  this  evening, — he'll  be  sure  to  find 
them  home — and  notify  them  all,  that  they'll  go 
into  the  street  to-morrow,  unless  their  arrearages 
are  all  paid  up  by  twelve  o'clock." 

"  Yes  sir,  I  will,"  responded  the  book-keeper. 

"As  for  housing  such  vermin  any  longer,  I 
won't,"  continued  the  landlord.  "  The  well  ones  are 
able,  enough  to  pay,  if  they  only  feel  it  a  necessity ; 
and  as  for  those  that  may  be  sick, — why,  if  their 
friends  won't  take  care  of  them,  let  them  go  to  the 
hospital." 

Friends!  Where  can  such  outcasts  expect  to 
find  friends ! 

It  was  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening.  The 

storm  that  had  been  gathering  in  the  cloud-folds 
so  long,  came  down  at  last.  It  was  snow. 

At  first,  it  spit  against  the  pane,  and  melted  and 
run  a  little  way  down.  Then  it  clinked,  much  like 
very  fine  hail.  Then  it  came  in  thick  gusts, — 
driving  against  the  windows  as  if  it  were  a  spirit 
that  would  not  be  kept  out  in  the  wintry  air. 

Nothing  but  a  bank  of  darkness  without.     The 


THE   OLD   WOMAN   OF   THE  COURT.  287 

noises  in  the  court  were  hushed.  Only  a  few  un- 
steady, riotous  echoes  chased  each  other  along  the 
stairs,  and  alleys,  and  passages.  Lights  from  wast- 
ing tallow-candles  tried  to  penetrate  the  gloom,  and 
reach  to  the  opposite  buildings ;  but  they  lost  them- 
selves before  they  had  gone  a  foot,  dissolving  as 
in  a  thick  mist.  Farthing  rushes  were  nothing  in 
that  wall  of  gloom.  It  seemed  as  if  it  might  have 
fallen  bodily  from  the  sky  into  the  court,  blocking 
it  up  hopelessly. 

The  old  woman,  Aunt  Deborah,  was  passing  but  a 
sorry  time  of  it.  Could  her  neighbors  have  looked 
in  upon  her,  they  would  have  found  her  still  sitting 
in  her  chair,  swathed  in  a  cloak  and  an  additional 
old  quilt,  and  steadily  bemoaning  her  fate.  The 
darkness  was  not  alone  at  her  window-pane ;  it 
crowded  about  her  heart.  .  . 

She  had  evidently  at  last  been  reached  by  the 
fiend — Despair.  It  was  plainly  to  be  seen  in  her 
eyes  ;  in  the  convulsive  twitches  of  her  frame ;  in 
the  quick  and  restless  working  of  her  hands.  Her 
brain  was  touched.  Her  heart  had  felt  the  heat  of 
the  overflowing  lava. 

Still  her  lips  kept  moving  and  murmuring. 
Still  she  kept  up  the  meaningless  movements  of 
her  body.  And  then  she  would  turn  her  eyes 
wildly  to  the  window,  as  if  she  could  look  into  the 
gloom;  and  incline  her  head  in  the  attitude  of 


288  CAP  SHEAF. 

listening,  as  if  she  could  hear  some  dim  and  distant 
footsteps  for  whose  coming  she  had  long  waited. 

Footsteps  did  come.  They  were  now  on  the 
stairs.  They  came  nearer — nearer.  They  ascended 
to  the  landing.  They  stopped  before  her  door. 

Then  she  heard  a  knock.  She  answered  it  with 
a  call  to  come  in.  The  light  had  nearly  gone  out 
in  the  corner,  and  weird  shadows  danced  against 
the  low  ceiling  and  the  wall.  Another  driving 
gust  beat  upon  the  panes. 

The  door  opened,  and  a  man  came  in. 

"  It  isn't  he  !  No — no !"  said  the  woman  in  a 
low  tone. 

He  shut  the  door  again,  and  then  stood  against 
it,  peering  about  the  room  to  discover  if  its  inmate 
was  there. 

"  Ah,  here  you  are  !"  at  last  exclaimed  he.  "I 
thought  I  heard  some  one  tell  me  to  come  in." 

The  woman  seemed  suddenly  to  have  put  on  a 
look  of  sullenness. 

1  I've  come  once  more  for  that  rent !"  said  he, 
speaking  with  much  absoluteness.  "  Can  you  pay 
it  to  me  to-night  ?" 

"  I've  been  sick  so  long  here  in  my  room,"  she 
replied,  "that  I've  done  nothing  more  about  it 
since  you  came  before." 

"  That's  always  the  excuse !  Everybody's  so 
sick,  when  you  want  to  get  any  money  out  of  'em  !" 


THE   OLD   WOMAN   OF   THE   COURT.  289 

The  woman  looked  up  at  his  countenance  with 
a  strange  expression  in  her  deep  eyes,  but  said 
nothing. 

He  paid  no  attention  to  her  glance,  but  con- 
tinued : — 

"  If  people  will  get  sick,  and  keep  sick,  then  they 
must  find  those  that'll  take  care  of  them.  Sickness 
is  no  excuse  for  an  honest  debt,  and  you'll  find  it 
won't  be  in  this  case.  You  understand  it,  don't 
you?" 

"  I  should  think  there  was  little  danger  of  mis- 
understanding that  talk,"  said  she,  her  voice  sink- 
ing so  low  that  one  might  readily  have  believed  it 
came  out  of  her  very  heart. 

"  Well,  then,  this  is  what  is  to  come  of  it.  •  Un- 
less your  arrears  are  paid  by  to-morrow,  — " 

"  Oh,  no ! — no ! — no  !  I  cannot  do  it !"  interrupted 
she. 

-  "  At  twelve  o'clock," 

"  Impossible  !  You  cannot  expect  it  of  me  !  So 
sick  !  So  destitute  !  So  dependent !" 

-  "  You  will  go  into  the  street !    That's  all !"' 
Again  there  drove  a  furious  blast  against  the 

window.  The  snow,  now  more  dense,  rattled  fear- 
fully upon  the  glass.  The  woman  held  her  breath 
involuntarily;  while  the  man  who  had  come  on 
such  an  errand  that  night,  looked  anxiously  toward 
the  window,  a  chill  of  terror  running  rapidly  over 
13 


290  CAP  SHEAF. 

him.  He  could  see  for  himself  what  was  the  com- 
fort of  such  a  shelter,  in  such  a  storm  as  that. 

The  poor  tenant  fetched  a  deep  groan. 

"  That  is  just  what  I  was  told  to  say  to  you,  and 
all  the  rest  of  you  that  are  behindhand,"  continued 
the  man,  feeling  for  the  door-latch,  and  appearing 
most  anxious  to  get  back  to  more  agreeable  quar- 
ters. "  I  give  you  till  to-morrow  noon ;  no  longer." 

"I  may  as  well  go  out  to-night,  then,  as  to- 
morrow," said  she.  "  There  can  be  but  little  dif- 
ference." 

"But  won't  you  try  to  do  something  towards 
paying  up  this  rent  ?"  asked  the  collector. 

"  What  can  I  do  ?  I  am  helpless.  I  am  sick. 
How  long  have  I  been  shut  up  here,  able  to  do 
nothing !  No,  turn  me  out  notv,  if  I  must  go  at 
all !  Let  me  lay  my  weary  head  in  the  street ! 
Let  the  blast  of  the  wind  take  my  last  breath  !  It 
may  as  well  be  so.  I  shall  never  live  to  see  him 
again.  Poor  boy ! — Poor  boy !  He  must  be  dead ! 
The  thought, — how  it  burns  on  my  brain  !" 

"Well,"  returned  the  man,  "you  may  have  the 
night  to  think  of  it.  Your  time  will  expire  to- 
morrow noon.  I  had  just  such  orders.  So  you 
had  better  be  making  an  effort." 

He  opened  the  door  upon  this,  and  went  out.  A 
blast  drove  in,  and  blew  out  the  flickering  light. 

The  sick  woman  sat  alone ! 


THE   OLD   WOMAN   OF  THE   COUET.  291 

When  once  the  light  was  gone  out,  feeble  and 
faint  as  it  was  at  the  best,  it  seemed  as  if  the  storm 
beat  the  harder.  The  gloom  through  the  window 
could  not  be  penetrated.  She  went  across  the  floor 
twice  or  thrice  to  look  out,  but  could  see  nothing. 
The  surging  of  the  wind  filled  her  ears.  And  the 
spiteful  spitting  of  the  snow  against  the  panes, 
sometimes  driven  with  redoubled  fury,  but  at  no 
moment  intermitted,  drove  the  blood  back  to  her 
heart. 

Her  flesh  was  dry  and  cold.  The  fire  was  smoul- 
dering on  the  hearth.  It  was  but  too  scanty  at  the 
best,  and  its  warmth  had  nothing  genial  in  it.  It 
created  no  feeling  of  sociality  over  the  apartment, 
and  hardly  one  of  comfort.  Jt  caused  no  pleasant 
images  to  dance  upon  the  old  wall,  or  the  wains- 
coting, and  it  raised  no  pleasant  thoughts  in  the 
brain. 

"  What  a  world  Js  this  !"  murmured  she,  as  she 
took  her  seat  again,  and  began  to  stare  into  the 
dying  embers.  "  What  struggles  ! — as  if  the  luckier 
were  therefore  the  better  one !  How  everybody 
jostles  against  his  friend  !  What  wrangling  over 
objects  that  are  not  worth  wrangling  about !  How 
much  anxiety ;  how  much  fear ;  how  continually 
is  the  strife  kept  up  !  Never  so  much  as  a  pause. 
Never  any  rest." 

A  fresh  breath  of  the  increasing  storm  drove 


292  CAP  SHEAF. 

with  fearful  violence  against  the  window.  The 
wind  howled  like  a  mad  demon,  intent  on  effecting 
an  entrance.  It  shook  the  window-frame,  as  if  it 
had  seized  hold  of  it  with  its  airy  hands,  and  would 
tear  it  into  tatters.  It  piped  shrilly  at  the  crevices, 
and  sent  its  dismal,  death-like  shrieks  echoing 
through  the  apartment. 

She  shuddered  again,  and  was  silent. 

Still  came  the  storm ;  never  relaxing ;  never  fold- 
ing up  its  black  wings.  The  snow  sifted  and  drifted 
down,  like  white  plumage  falling  from  millions  of 
birds.  It  fell  in  heaps,  all  spotless  and  immacu- 
late. It  spread  out  in  soft  plains,  pure  as  the  light 
that  first  winged  its  way  from  heaven.  It  capped 
peaks,  gables,  and  angles.  It  piled  up  smoothly 
and  round  upon  window-sills,  and  lay  in  long,  nar- 
row lines  upon  fences. 

There  was  the  more  mystery  in  its  fall,  because 
it  came  in  the  deep  silence  and  the  darkness.  The 
blowing  of  the  wind,  whiffing  it  now  this  way  and 
now  that,  grouped  together  the  most  unearthly 
images  in  the  mind.  Blowing  now  against  the 
windows,  and  now  through  the  door  into  the  dilapi- 
dated hall,  it  required  but  little  imagination  on  the 
part  of  such  a  sufferer  as  this  poor  woman,  to  feel 
herself  exposed  to  it  on  all  sides. 

Tired  at  length  with  the  moaning  of  the  wind 
and  the  battling  of  the  storm  without,  and  weary 


THE  OLD   WOMAN  OF  THE   COUKT.  293 

with  the  fearful  thoughts  that  chased  each  other 
round  in  her  brain,  she  tottered  to  her  bed,  and 
tried  to  forget  all  in  that  balmy  rest  that  a  good 
God  has  granted  all  alike.  And  she  slept.  And 
while  sleep  pressed  down  her  weary  lids,  and 
dreams  began  to  swim  pleasantly  in  her  brain,  the 
storm  still  continued  to  rage. 

Winter  had  come  in  earnest.  There  was  no  re- 
sistance to  its  approach,  on  any  side,  that  night. 
People  slunk  away  from  the  storm,  and  hid  in  their 
houses.  They  sat  by  blazing  firesides,  or  gazed  at 
heated  stoves,  that  glared,  like  Polyphemus  of  old, 
from  their  single  eye  of  fire  all  about  the  room. 
Some  drew  shawls,  and  blankets,  and  old  quilts 
closer  about  their  shoulders,  chattering  their  teeth 
and  rubbing  their  hands.  Some  talked  of  the 
sailors  that  rocked  on  the  wave-tops  that  night,  and 
pitied  them.  In  well-lighted  parlors,  happy  child- 
ren romped  over  thick  carpets,  their  little  feet 
scarce  making  an  impression ;  and  laughed  till  bed- 
time with  their  parents.  In  dismal  dens,  with  low 
ceilings  and  dim  lights,  human  beings  crouched  and 
crowded,  mingling  their  voices  confusedly  in 
laughter  and  noisy  wrangling.  , 

And  all  blessed  their  stars  that  the  storm  could 
not  reach  them.  Its  dismal  sounds  without  only 
made  them  more  contented  within.  Domestic  feel- 
ings were  suddenlv  forced  into  active  growth,  that 


294  CAP  SHEAF. 

in  milder  weather  would  have  died  out  altogether. 
All  through  the  still  hours  of  that  night,  it  was 
blow— blow,  sift— sift,  drift— drift,  fall— fall.  The 
winds  howled,  and  piped,  and  shrieked,  and  moan- 
ed. They  raved  like  overjoyed  fiends,  as  if  they 
reveled  in  their  fearful  liberty  on  such  a  night  as 
that. 

The  clocks  in  the  town-steeples  presently  sound- 
ed twelve.  One  answered  the  other  afar  off,  like 
wakeful  goblins  in  the  mysterious  and  storm-filled 
sky.  Their  jangled  music,  distant  and  dim.  was 
broken  into  billows  by  the  driving  wind. 

A  moment  after,  another  sound.  It  might  have 
been  the  shriek  of  the  maddened  wind ;  but  it  was 
not.  It  pierced  all  the  gusts  of  the  beating  storm. 
It  rose  high  above  all  other  noises.  It  was  shriller, 
— sharper, — fiercer.  There  was  one  long  note  of 
terror  in  it,  and  that  was  all.  Instantly  it  came 
again ;  and  again.  It  was  redoubled.  It  rang  now 
from  a  score  of  throats  ;  from  a  hundred  throats. 

The  goblins  in  the  steeples  caught  the  sound, 
and  at  once  shouted  in  the  night-air  in  reply. 
Their  noisy  tongues  took  it  up,  and  bellowed  it 
out  upon  the  wind ;  and  the  storming  wind  took  it 
up,  and  carried  it  over  every  snow-crested  roof  in 
the  city.  The  air  above  them  now  was  alive  with 
the  broken  and  billowy  echoes. 

"FIRE!  FIRE!  FIRE!" 


THE    OLD    WOMAN   OF  THE   COURT.  295 

People  jumped  from  their  snug  corners,  and 
warm  beds,  and  comfortable  coverings  by  the  fire, 
in  alarm.  They  multiplied  the  cries  yet  more 
rapidly.  Lights  gleamed  from  chamber  and  gable 
windows.  Engines  rumbled  like  heavy  artillery- 
carriages  in  the  streets.  Loud  voices  of  men  rose 
from  every  quarter.  And  above  and  amidst  all, 
the  brazen -throated  bells  still  kept  up  their  uproar. 
The  confusion  was  complete. 

The  sudden  spouting  forth  of  the  red  flames  told 
the  town  where  the  calamity  had  smitten  them. 
The  row  of  wooden  buildings  in  the  court  was  all 
on  fire ! 

Quicker  than  it  could  be  told,  dense  multitudes 
of  people  were  crowded  in  and  about  the  court. 
Some  were  sufferers,  but  more  had  come  to  offer 
relief.  The  inhabitants  of  the  old  buildings  poured 
out  like  steady  lines  of  bees  from  hives  on  a  sum- 
mer day.  The  space  was  full. 

"Weird  and  wild  were  the  fires  that  burst  their 
feeble  barriers.  Each  house-top  looked  as  if  it 
might  be  a  head  of  Medusa,  hideous  with  fiery 
snakes  and  monsters.  The  winds  blew  upon  them, 
and  made  circles,  and  curves,  and  parabolas  of  fire 
against  the  black  sky.  Then  they  caught  them  up, 
and  lifted  them  high  into  the  midnight  gloom. 
And  still  the  snow  kept  falling;  and  the  men  were 


296  CAP  SHEAF. 

shouting ;  and  women  and  children  were  shrieking ; 
and  bells  were  ringing  fearfully. 

A  louder  cry  arose.  It  was  from  the  farther,  or 
inner  end  of  the  court. 

A  woman  stood  at  an  open  window  of  the  upper 
story,  the  flames  leaping  hungrily  towards  her, 
shrieking  for  help.  Opposite  her  was  a  wall  of 
living  fire. 

'Ladders  were  lifted  hurriedly  to  the  window,  and 
brave  men  went  up.  The  owner  of  the  buildings 
happened  to  be  one.  His  noble  impulses  could  not 
be  restrained  by  fear,  and  he  mounted  to  the  win- 
dow. But  the  woman  now  had  disappeared. 

It  was  Aunt  Deborah  ! 

A  cloud  of  smoke  and  fire  drove  through  the 
window  they  had  reached,  and  beat  them  back. 
Then  the  changing  wind  lifted  the  whole  up 
through  the  burning  roof,  and  they  looked  in. 
The  woman  was  lying  on  the  floor,  insensible. 

They  took  her  in  their  arms  and  bore  her  to  the 
ground  carefully.  She  was  not  yet  dead,  and  they 
removed  her  to  a  place  of  safety,  where  restora- 
tives would  be  applied. 

The  buildings  of  the  old  court  were  all  consum- 
ed ;  and  hundreds  of  the  poor  shivered  in  the  cold 
winter  night,  for  want  of  shelter. 

The  owner  of  the  building  from  which  the  old 


THE   OLD   WOMAN   OF  THE   COURT.  297 

woman  was  taken,  went  back  to  see  if  she  still 
lived.  As  he  entered  the  room,  he  caught  the  look 
of  her  deep,  dark  eyes. 

In  another  moment,  he  had  in  his  arms  the 
emaciated  form  of  HIS  MOTHER  ! 

It  was  a  strange  Providence ;  but  he  for  whom 
that  mother  had  so  many  years  wept,  was  thus 
mysteriously  restored  to  her. 


A    HEAET    EXHUMED. 

ASTKANGE  and  gloomy-looking  building  it 
was,  that  stood  a  little  back  from  one  of  the 
thoroughfares,  with  an  open  space  before  and  beside 
it,  that  reminded  one  much  of  an  attempt  at  a 
court-yard.  A  few  stunted  trees  stood  about  the 
area,  making  almost  abortive  efforts  at  producing 
foliage,  and  flinging  down  upon  the  smooth  and 
hard-worn  ground  the  most  meagre  patches  of 
shadow  conceivable.  A  lazaar-house  itself  could 
not  have  been  more  dismal  and  deserted.  Living 
beings  were  rarely  seen  walking  in  the  yard  during 
the  day,  and  no  noises  echoed  among  the  dreary 
arches  at  night.  No  lights,  either,  ever  streamed 
through  the  high  and  small-paned  windows,  to 
illumine  even  ever  so  faintly  the  thick  darkness 
that  nightly  seemed  to  wall  in  the  place.  Old- 
fashioned  turrets,  and  peaked  gables,  and  green 
little  windows,  abounded  upon  this  fantastic  pile ; 
over  which  the  curious  eye  might  wander  unsatis- 
fied for  hours. 


A  HEART   EXHUMED.  299 

The  influences  that  brooded  about  it,  were  of  the 
most  mysterious  character.  The  roar  and  rattle  of 
the  neighboring  street  only  made  the  silence  of  the 
place  the  more  intense.  It  seemed  even  filled  with 
voices,  though  itself  so  very  still.  Some  wonder- 
ful hallucination  existed  there ;  as  if  two  worlds 
were  mysteriously  united  in  one,  yet  each  a  separate 
existence. 

On  a  biting  night  in  December,  a  gaunt  and 
spectre-like  being  noiselessly  crossed  the  area  from 
the  direction  of  the  street,  and  flitted  from  the 
vision,  disappearing  in  one  of  the  many  dark  re- 
cesses that  slept  about  the  building.  He  wore  a 
loose  and  flowing  garment  around  his  person,  that 
swayed  and  flapped  with  the  blast  of  each  breath 
of  the  storming  wind,  revealing  a  pair  of  lean  and 
crooked  legs,  and  compelling  him  to  bend  far  down 
to  resist  with  success  the  onset  of  the  storm. 

A  heavy  sleet  was  falling  at  the  time,  rattling 
like  volleys  of  small  shot  against  the  dreary  win- 
dows. Lights  from  distant  buildings  faintly  shone 
upon  the  roofs  and  turrets  of  this,  revealing  all  its 
forbidding  proportions,  and  creating  impressions 
of  the  most  dismal  character  imaginable.  The 
being  alluded  to,  stole  across  the  unfrequented 
yard,  and  was  immediately  lost  in  the  gloom.  He 
reached  a  low  doorway,  and  passed  in.  The  old  and 
crazy  stairs  creaked  beneath  his  pressure,  while  he 


800  CAP   SHEAF. 

glared  wildly  in  every  direction  to  know  what 
meant  the  shrieks,  and  howls,  and  groans,  at  the 
loosened  easements. 

Almost  at  the  dismal  attic,  where  he  could  dis- 
tinctly hear  the  peltings  of  the  storm  upon  the 
weather-worn  roof,  he  finally  found  the  place  of  his 
secretion.  It  was  a  small  room,  with  a  remarkably 
low  ceiling,  and  but  two  windows.  Stained  and 
tattered  curtains  of  checkered  material  hung  before 
them ;  and  above  them,  in  a  style  of  arabesque, 
dangled  ragged  webs  from  the  busy  looms  of  spi- 
ders. The  apartment  wras  cold ;  and  the  first  thing 
he  proceeded  to  do,  on  entering,  was  to  replenish 
the  fire.  This  labor  he  succeeded  finally  in  accom- 
plishing ;  but  it  was  after  much  rubbing  together 
of  his  smooth  ,and  skinny  hands.  The  noise  pro- 
duced by  this  process  was  much  like  that  made  by 
the  attrition  of  shingles.  He  threw  aside  his  odd- 
looking  cloak,  as  the  coals  began  to  snap  and  kin- 
dle, and  drew  close  to  the  fire.  An  old  chest  had 
been  previously  pulled  out  from  beneath  the  bed ; 
and,  producing  a  large  key  from  his  pocket,  he  pro- 
ceeded to  unlock  it  with  the  same. 

The  chest  was  filled  with  bags  of  money.  With 
his  shriveled  hands,  he  drew  them  out  one  by  one, 
carefully  untying  the  strings  about  their  necks. 
Silver  and  gold  lay  promiscuously  heaped  together. 
How  strangely  those  glittering  pieces  looked  in  his 


A  HEART   EXHUMED.  3Q1 

hands  !  How  the  glitter  seemed  to  mock  him,  and 
to  wreck  his  hopes !  "What  a  hollow,  dull,  and 
heartless  sound  there  was  in  the  clink  of  the  coin ! 
"What  a  heavy  weight  seemed  each  individual  piece 
upon  his  hand,  as  it  had  the  sorrows  of  a  score  of 
souls  all  centered  in  itself!  And  this  was  the  old 
man's  happiness, — his  only  happiness.  He  sat  be- 
fore his  fire  till  a  very  late  hour  in  the  night ; 
counting, — and  clinking  the  coins  together, — and 
counting.  The  fire  finally  grew  dull,  and  went 
slowly  down.  His  limbs  began  to  shake  and  knock 
together,  for  the  cold.  The  tallow-stump  suddenly 
melted ;  run  into  its  candlestick  cup ;  and  the  light 
went  out  at  length  altogether.  The  miser  was  in 
the  darkness. 

Of  all  other  places,  none  could  have  been  imagined 
that,  for  dreariness,  would  equal  this.  And  the 
storming  of  the  winter  sleet,  and  the  beating,  and 
driving,  and  surging,  of  the  midnight  wind,  lent 
an  additional  gloom  to  the  place,  that  no  descrip- 
tion could  properly  portray.  Just  as  the  light  left 
him,  and  the  darkness  walled  him  in,  the  wind  set 
up  a  wilder  howl  at  the  windows ;  rattling  more 
fiercely  the  casements ;  and  shrieking  and  crying, 
as  if  in  dire  distress.  Before  he  moved  a  hand 
towards  relighting  his  candle,  the  miser  slightly 
averted  his  head  to  listen.  A  cold  tremor  ran  over 
him.  He  shook  in  every  limb.  He  turned  his 


302  CAP  SHEAF. 

head  aside,  and  listened  again.  This  time  he  started 
out  of  his  chair.  Leaping  quite  into  the  middle  of 
the  room,  he  stood  there  for  some  time  as  motion- 
less as  a  statue. 

Again  came  the  gust, — the  beating  of  the  sleet, — 
and  that  startling  howl.  The  little  old  man  seized 
his  hat  and  cloak,  and  rushed  out  into  the  hall. 
The  echoes  of  his  tread  resounded  among  the  dark 
passages  and  gloomy  entries,  and  finally  followed 
him  out  at  the  door.  Beyond  this  point  his  step 
was  noiseless ;  for  the  falling  of  the  sleet,  and  the 
driving  of  the  wind,  both  drowned  the  sound  of 
his  coming  in  their  overwhelming  roar.  The  man 
was  in  an  uncontrollable  frenzy.  Something  he 
had  heard  above  the  noise  of  the  wind, — some 
voice  he  fancied  he  had  caught  in  the  wind  itself, 
pierced  his  ears,  and  struck  terror  to  his  soul.  On 
— on.  The  storm  was  nothing  to  him.  There  was 
nothing  fearful  in  the  freezing,  icy  sleet,  that  cut 
his  fleshless  face.  The  darkness  of  the  night  was 
as  the  broad  light  of  noonday.  He  heard  nothing, 
— saw  nothing, — thought  of  nothing, — save  that 
fearful  voice.  Only  the  memory  of  that  froze  the 
blood  in  his  veins.  What  it  was,  he  knew  not. 
It  was  something  he  could  not  describe.  Its  strange 
and  fearful  power,  was  all  he  could  feel. 

He  went  dashing  through  the  desolate  yard,  and 
plunging  into  the  gloomiest  lanes  and  alleys.  There 


A  HEART  EXHUMED.  303 

was  a  weird  influence  upon  him,  like  the  clutch  of 
a  spectre's  skinny  hand ;  compelling  him  to  shun 
the  lighted  streets,  and  to  seek  the  darkest  and 
narrowest  passages.  It  might  have  been  the  bad 
angel  of  his  heart.  It  might,  too,  have  been  the 
spirit  of  the  evil  one  himself! 

He  had  threaded  already  several  such  forbidding 
avenues,  passing  places,  in  his  swift  route,  where 
squalor  and  wretchedness  joined  hand  in  hand  with 
beastliness  and  crime,  when  his  course  was  suddenly 
arrested  by  the  hand  of  a  person  who  stalked, 
ghost-like,  out  from  a  darkened  doorway.  It  was 
a  female. 

"What!  Ho!  Let  me  pass  !"  exclaimed  he,  in 
an  alarmed  voice. 

"No,  no  !  For  the  love  of  God,  no  1"  cried  the 
stranger. 

How  that  tone  thrilled  him !  How  it  drove  that 
same  fearful  tremor  through  all ,  his  limbs !  It 
sounded  like  the  voice  he  had  heard  in  the  old 
pile  from  which  he  had  just  fled.  It  was  the  same, 
he  said  to  himself  at  once.  Just  as  that  voice  rose 
above  the  shrieks  and  howling  of  the  wind,  so  did 
this  voice  rise  in  his  ears. 

"  jq~o, — let  me  pass !  Let  me  pass !"  he  more 
than  half  begged  again. 

"  But  for  a  moment !  Only  for  a  moment,  I  be- 
seech you !"  returned  the  female. 


804  CAP  SHEAF. 

This  time  she  spoke  in  tenderer  accents.  Her 
syllables  were  low  and  subdued.  They  smote  the 
heart,  obdurate  and  flinty  as  it  was,  of  the  little 
miser.  He  stooped  down  a  trifle,  and  tried  to  read 
the  expression  of  her  eyes ;  but  the  darkness  was 
too  deep.  There  was  a  new  and  strange  influence 
upon  him,  and  he  was  as  if  bound  hand  and  foot. 
He  had  no  power  of  his  own  to  move  a  step.  He 
was  as  one  without  a  will. 

"What  will  you  with  me?"  he  asked  of  his 
companion;  and  just  at  the  moment  a  raw  gust 
slapped  cruelly  in  his  face. 

"  Come  with  me  !"  pleaded  the  female,  in  reply. 
Her  voice  had  suddenly  become  faint  from  its  pas- 
sionateness.  She  could  scarcely  articulate.  Yet 
each  syllable,  faint  and  low  as  it  was,  froze  the 
blood  in  the  miser's  veins.  She  turned, — still  hold- 
ing on  by  his  arm, — and  led  the  way  back  through 
the  darkened  doorway.  He  followed  closely  on. 
They  ascended  one — two — three — four  flights  of 
wooden  stairs,  well  worn  by  human  feet,  with  in- 
sufficient railings,  and  unsteady  motions.  Even 
the  miser  half  feared  for  himself  at  every  step,  lest 
he  might  have  foolishly  betrayed  himself  into  some 
terrible  danger.  For  the  first  time,  he  paused  to 
ask  himself  what  he  was  doing. 

"  Come !  I  beg  you  come  /"  again  urged  the  fren- 
zied woman  ;  and  the  passionate  words  moved  him. 


A  HEART  EXHUMED.  805 

They  reached  a  low  apartment  in  the  garret.  The 
woman  seized  the  door,  and  opened  it  in  an  instant. 
Still  holding  on  fiercely  by  his  arm,  she  both  urged 
and  dragged  him  in.  A  dull  and  sickly  light  was 
trying  to  burn  in  a  corner.  There  was  an  open 
fire-place  ;  but  no  blaze  was  dancing  up  the  throat 
of  the  chimney.  The  sticks  had  long  ago  burned 
out ;  and  white  and  gray  ashes  were  piled  up  to- 
gether, apparently  for  a  long  slumber.  No  bright 
fire-dogs,  ruddy  with  the  flames.  No  steaming  ket- 
tles, pointing  their  noses  to  loaded  tables.  No  de- 
lightful and  appetite-provoking  aromas,  sailing  in 
clouds  through  the  room  from  heaped  dishes  of 
meats,  or  vegetables,  or  soups.  The  floor  was 
without  covering,  and  looked  as  cold  as  the  pave- 
ment they  had  just  left.  There  was  not  even  a 
chair  in  the  room  ;  nor  a  bedstead.  A  bunch  bf 
straw  was  thrown  down  in  a  distant  corner,  and 
upon  it  was  spread  a  ragged  coverlid.  By  the  side 
of  it  stood  an  old  chest.  The  woman  hurried  to 
the  bedside,  drawing  the  miser  after  her.  The 
faint  light  flung  a  lurid  glare  over  the  place,  scarcely 
sufficing  to  reveal  the  object  that  lay  extended 
there. 

"  See !"  hissed  the  frenzied  female,  through  her 
teeth,  while  she  pointed  to  the  bed  upon  the  floor. 

"Starving!"  said  she;  and  her  eyes- glared 
strangely  with  the  word. 


306  CAP  SHEAF. 

The  miser  started  back  involuntarily.  Even  he 
could  not  behold  that  sight  without  emotion. 

"  Save  him !  For  the  love  of  God,  save  my 
child  !"  she  shrieked  again. 

Just  at  that  moment  a  gust  of  wind  drove 

howling  down  the  open  throat  of  the  chimney, 
driving  out  the  ashes  far  into  the  room.  The 
shriek  of  the  wind  was  louder  even  than  the  cry 
of  the  agonized  woman's  voice.  Yet  each  seemed 
only  to  say,  in  fearfully  earnest  syllables : 

"Save  my  child !" 

The  sleeper  awoke  with  the  cry.  Tossing  his 
arms  about  restlessly,  he  called  on  his  mother. 

"  I  am  here,  Tommy,"  replied  she  ;  and  instantly 
stooped  down  and  kissed  his  forehead. 

The  light  flamed  up,  and  the  man  saw  full  well 
how  pale  that  childish  forehead  was.  The  boy 
could  not  have  been  more  than  four  years  of  age. 
As  he  threw  his  arms  and  hands  about,  he  betrayed 
the  fearful  want  of  flesh.  He  seemed  .nothing  but 
bones  and  skin.  His  forehead  was  beautifully 
shaped, — full,  broad,  and  high.  It  slept  now  in  a 
dense  bed  of  dark  chestnut  locks,  and  looked 
whiter  than  marble.  His  eyes  were  a  dark  blue, 
large,  and  expressive.  They  seemed  filled  >  with 
untold  dreams.  His  cheeks,  though  much  sunken 
from  want  and  suffering,  were  yet  full  enough  to 
betray  their  remarkable  whiteness.  Nothing  could 


A   HEART  EXHUMED.  307 

be  thought  of,  whiter  than  they.  A  half  smile, 
half  complaint,  curled  his  finely  cut  lips ;  as  if  he 
would  be  happy,  but  could  not.  How  could  happi- 
ness come  to  his  squalid  bedside,  through  an  array 
of  such  misery  and  wretchedness ! 

Not  seeming  to  heed  the  presence  of  a  stranger, 
he  addressed  his  mother,  still  tossing  his  arms 
above  his  head.  So  low  and  liquid  a  voice  sound- 
ed like  nothing  else  that  was  human.  The  miser 
was  wrought  upon,  as  by  some  magic  power.  He 
listened  with  speechless  emotions. 

"  0,  mother  !"  very  faintly  said  the  child,  "  will 
you  go  with  me,  too  ?" 

"  Go  where,  child  ?  Where  does  my  little  boy 
mean?"  she  inquired,  bending  still  farther  over 
him,  to  catch  his  whispered  syllables. 

"  I  want  you  to  go,  too,  mother,"  persisted  the 
boy. 

"  But  where  shall  mother  go  ?  Where  does  Tom- 
my mean  ?"  she  asked  him  again,  holding  her  ear 
still  farther  down. 

"  Mother,"  said  he,  ft  I  am  going  to  die.  Shall  I 
have  to  be  buried  up  in  the  ground  ?  Will  you 
not  let  me  be  buried  in  my  little  bed,  and  lie  here 
just  as  I  always  do?  Say,  mother;  will  you  not 
come,  and  die,  and  be  buried  here  with  me,  too  ?" 

The  mother  could  not  speak.  Her  heart  was  too 
full  for  utterance. 


808  CAP  SHEAF. 

"I'm  dying,  mother,"  said  the  boy;  "I  know 
I'm  dying." 

"You're  starving!"  she  cried.  "0,  sir!  Save 
him !  Save  my  child !" 

How  strangely  sounded  that  voice  again  in  the 
miser's  ears !  He  looked  full  as  excitedly  upon 
the  woman,  as  upon  the  child.  The  fearful  shriek 
that  rose  above  the  wind,  still  lingered  in  the  cells 
of  his  brain.  He  grew  blind  and  dizzy ;  and  as  he 
tried  to  move,  he  staggered. 

"  Bread !  Only  a  crumb  of  bread  !  My  child  is 
starving !"  she  cried  again,  in  her  agony. 

"Woman!"  fiercely  replied  the  miser,  grasping 
her  by  her  thin  wrist. 

"O,  mother!  Dear  mother!"  faintly  articulated 
the  child.  "  I  am  dying !  Come  with  me,  mother !" 

"Tommy!  Tommy!"  she  called  at  the  top  of 
her  voice.  "  Do  not  tell  me  so !  You  will  drive 
me  mad  !  You  are  not  dying !  Tommy  /" 

"Will  you  go,  too,  mother?"  his  feeble  voice 
spoke,  even  more  faintly. 

She  put  both  hands  to"  her  head,  and  her  chest 
heaved  convulsively  with  sobs.  Low  and  agoni- 
zing groans  broke  from  her  lips,  as  if  her  poor,  sad 
heart  was  rending  itself  in  pieces. 

"I  will  not !"  fiercely  exclaimed  the  miser,  shak- 
ing her. 

She    looked  up  at  him,  through  her   blinding 


A   HEART  EXH1JMED.  309 

tears  ;    but  only  for  a  moment.      Her  face  was  the 
true  index  of  the  feelings  that  lacerated  her  heart. 
"Woman!"   said  Caleb  again,     "why  did  you 
bring  me  here  ?      Why  should  1  be  made  to'  see 
this  deep  misery  ?     O,  that  such  wretchedness  is  in 

the  world  !" 

• 

"  Only  save  my  child — my  darling  Tommy !"  she 
cried  again. 

"  I  cannot.  What  can  1  do  ?  Why  could  I  not 
have  been  spared  this  sight  ?  Woman,  you  haunt 
me !  Your  very  voice  terrifies  me  !  Why  should 
I  be  here?  No — let  me  go  !  let  me  go  !" 

"And  my  child " 

"  But  what  can  I  do  ?  My  heart  bleeds  enough, 
already  !" 

"  Food  !     Warmth  !     0,  save  little  Tommy  !" 

The  miser's  eye  flamed  suddenly  up,  like  a  newly 
kindled  fire.  Dropping  the  hand  he  had  held  so 
firmly,  he  gave  another  glare  around  the  room,  and 
rushed  out.  The  woman  was  too  much  blinded 
with  sorrow,  to  heed  what  was  going  on  around 
her ;  save  only  that  her  child  was  suffering.  She 
bowed  down  her  head  to  his,  and  laid  her  cheek 
against  his  cold  cheek.  How  cold !  The  child  clasp- 
ed her  frail  neck  with  his  fleshless  arms,  as  if  he 
would  not  let  her  go  again.  And  his  eyes  rolled 
strangely  and  wildly  in  their  sockets,  while  he 
as  for  more  air. 


310  CAP  SHEAF. 

"I  will  die,  too,  Tommy!"  said  she,  and  kissed 
him. 

"  0,  mother,  if  you  will  come  with  me !  I'm 
afraid  to  die  alone  ! " 

"I  will  go,  dear  Tommy !  I  will  go  !  Kiss  me, 
my  child.  Kiss  your  poor  mother,  again.  She 
cannot  livej-  and  be  bereaved  !" 

His  pale  lips  moved  to  impress  the  affectionate 
kiss  she  craved;  but  they  were  nearly  lifeless. 
There  was  not  a  stain  of  the  rich,  red  blood  upon 
them.  Only  a  curved  white  line.  It  appeared  as 
if  the  mother  could  never  raise  her  head  again. 
One  would  have  thought  her  dying,  as  she  had 
wished  to  die,  with  her  child. 

It  was  a  period  of  dreadful  suspense.  The  light 
had  well  nigh  gone  out,  and  gaunt  and  misshapen 
figures  lay  and  grappled  along  the  wall,  like  fright- 
ful spectres  that  had  come  to  witness  the  last  scene. 
Anon  the  wind  howled  again,  and  stirred  the  ashes 
fiercely.  And  then  the  icy  sleet  drove  impetuously 
against  the  rattling  window,  driving  a  yet  colder 
chill  to  the  heart  of  the  lone  widow.  Only  sobs 
and  sighs.  There  was  a  low,  faint  prayer,  too.  It 
came  from  the  lips  of  the  mother.  She  could 
scarcely  articulate.  The  prayer  was  uttered  in  a 
tone  a  little  above  a  whisper.  The  boy  mingled 
his  syllables  with  hers. 

In  the  midst  of  this  deep  and  silent  grief,  while 


A  HEART  EXHUMED.  3H 

the  dark  cloud  was  ready  to  break  upon  two  inno- 
cent and  stricken  hearts,  the  door  was  hastily 
thrown  open.  A  man  entered,  holding  a  glaring 
lantern  in  his  hand.  It  was  the  miser ! 

"  Here !  Be  quick !  There  aint  a  minute  to  be 
lost!"  shouted  he  to  the  person  who  followed  close 
behind. 

They  entered  the  room  and  pushed  rapidly  to 
the  bedside. 

"Heavens!"  exclaimed  the  miser,  "they  are 
dead!" 

Mother  and  child  were  lying  closely  enfolded  in 
each  other's  embrace.  They  indeed  seemed  to  be 
dead.  The  miser  stooped  down  and  seized  the 
woman  by  the  shoulder,  calling  loudly  upon-  her. 
She  lifted  her  head  languidly,  and  gazed  upon  the 
strangers.  Her  sight  was  so  dim,  it  seemed  to  have 
left  her  altogether.  She  was  fast  yielding  to  the 
power  of  the  death-stupor,  and  would  soon  be  gone. 
Little  Tommy's  eyes  were  closed ;  but  he  still 
breathed.  The  miser  made  violent  gestures  to  his 
companion.  The  latter  set  down  the  basket  he 
carried,  and  opened  it.  In  a  moment,  a  volume  of 
steam  rose  to  his  head,  enveloping  it  in  a  cloud,  and 
sending  its  fragrance  all  through  the  room.  He 
knelt  down  by  the  meagre  bed,  and  while  the 
miser  held  her  form,  administered  the  steaming 
broth.  She  drank  it  off  instinctively,  scarce  know- 


312  CAP   SHEAF. 

iug  why.  It  revived  her.  'Then  they  carried  a 
taste  of  it  to  the  lips  of  the  child,  and  forced  it 
down  his  throat.  The  warm  nourishment  found 
its  way  through  his  emaciated  system  at  once,  and 
he  called  out,  faintly  : 

"Mother!" 

They  were  left  together  again, — the  miser 

and  the  starving  family.  The  man  had  gone  out 
for  more  comforts  for  the  sufferers.  The  miser, 
wrought  upon  by  the  desperation  of  his  feelings, 
had  given  him  all  license  respecting  the  provision 
he  should  make  for  them. 

"  If  I  could  only  see  through  this  trouble!" 

exclaimed  the  poor  woman. 

"  What  next  ?"  asked  Caleb  Mudge.  "  What  do 
you  fear  next?" 

"  Starvation  !  What  can  I  do  for  my  poor 
child  ?" 

"  You  shall  not  suffer  ! "  exclaimed  he,  his  heart 
rising  in  his  throat.  "  I  have-money, — it  is  yours ! 
Your  boy  shall  live !" 

"  But  I  can  never  repay  you  this,"  she  urged, 
her  eyes  betraying  her  gratitude. 

"  Say  no  more.  Only  trust  to  me.  I  will  see 
that  you  do  not  go  through  another  such  harrowing 
trial!" 

The  miser's  heart  had  become  suddenly  re- 
newed. So  strange  a  sight  had  moved  him,  first 


A  HEART  EXHUMED.  313 

with  fear,  and  then  with  deepest  pity.  The  latter 
had  possession  of  him  now. 

"But  whom  am  I  to  thank  for  all  this?" 

asked  the  woman,  turning  her  large  eyes  upon  him. 
"  Whom  am  I  to  call  my  preserver  ?  Let  me  not, 
at  least,  forget  to  be  grateful !" 

"  You  do  not  know  Caleb  Mudge,"  said  he.  "I 
am  he." 

She  looked  wildly  about  her, — uttered  a 

strange  voice, — and  staggered,  and  fell  back  upon 
the  bed. 

Caleb  Mudge  was  her  brother! 

Why  should  I  dwell  longer  upon  a  scene  I  can- 
not describe? 


14 


J.  S.  REDFIELD, 

110  AND  112  NASSAU  STREET,  NEW  YORK, 

HAS  JUST  PUBLISHED : 


EPISODES  OF  INSECT  LIFE. 

By  ACHETA  DOMESTICA.     In  Three  Series :  I.  Insects  of  Spring 

II.  Insects  of  Summer. —  III.  Insects  of  Autumn.  Beautifully 
illustrated.  Crown  8vo.,  cloth,  gilt,  price  $2.00  each.  The  same 
beautifully  colored  after  nature,  extra  gilt,  $4.00  each. 

"  A  book  elegant  enough  for  the  centre  table,  witty  enough  for  after  dinner,  and  wise 
enouch  for  the  study  and  the  school-room.  One  of  the  beautiful  lessons  of  this  work  ia 
the  kindly  view  it  t«kes  of  nature.  Nothing  is  made  in  vain  not  only,  but  nothing  is 
made  ugly  or  repulsive.  A  charm  is  thrown  around  every  object,  and  life  suffused 
through  all.  suggestive  of  the  Creator's  goodness  and  wisdom." — N.  Y.  Evangelist. 

"Moths,  glow-worms,  lady-birds,  May-flies,  bees,  and  a  variety  of  other  inhabitants  of 
the  insect  world,  are  descanted  upon  in  a  pleasing  style,  combining  scientific  information 
with  romance,  in  a  manner  peculiarly  attractive." — Commercial  Advertiser. 

"  The  book  includes  solid  instruction  as  well  as  genial  and  captivating  mirth.  The 
scientific  knowledge  of  the  writer  is  thoroughly  reliable."— Examiner. 


MEN  AND  WOMEN  OF  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY. 

By  ARSENE  HOUSSAYE,  with  beautifully  Engraved  Portraits  of 
Louis  XV.,  and  Madame  de  Pompadour.  Two  volume  12mo. 
450  pages  each,  extra  superfine  paper,  price  $2.50. 

CONTENTS.— Dufresny,  Fontenelle,  Marivaux,  Piron,  The  Abbe"  Prevost,  Gentll-Bcrnard, 
Florian,  Boufflers,  Diderot,  Gretry,  Riverol,  Louis  XV.,  Greuze,  Boucher,  The  Van- 
loos,  Lantara,  Watteau,  La  Motte,  Dehle,  Abbe"  Trublet,  Buffon,  Dorat,  Cardinal  de 
Bernis,  Crgbillon  the  Gay,  Marie  Antoinette,  Made,  de  Pompadour,  Vade",  Mile.  Ca- 
margo,  Mile.  Clairon,  Mad.  de  la  PopeliniBre,  Sophie  Arnould,  Cre"bHlon  the  Tragic, 
Mile.  Guimard,  Three  Pages  in  the  Life  of  Dancourt,  A  Promenade  in  the  Palais-Royal, 
the  Chevalier  de  la  Clos. 

"A  more  fascinating  book  than  this  rarely  issues  from  the  teeming  press.  Fascina- 
ting in  its  subject ;  fascinating  in  its  style :  fascinating  in  its  power  to  lead  the  render  into 
castle-building  of  the  most  gorgeous  and  bewitching  description." — Courier  Sf  Enquirer. 
"  This  is  a  most  welcome  book,  full  of  information  and  amusement,  in  the  form  of 
memoirs,  comments,  and  anecdotes.  It  has  the  style  of  light  literature,  with  the  use- 
fulness if  the  gravest  It  should  be  in  every  library,  and  the  hands  of  every  reader." 
Boston  Commonwealth. 

"  A  BOOK  OF  BOOKS. — Two  deliciously  spicy  volumes,  that  are  a  perfect  bonne  bouchi 
for  in  epicure  in  reading.*' — Home  Journal, 


REDFIELD'S  NEW  AND  POPULAR  PUBLICATIONS. 


PHILOSOPHERS  A3D  ACTRESSES. 

Bv  ARSENE  HOUSSAYE.     With  beautifully-engraved  Portraits  ol 
"Voltaire  and  Mad.  Parabere.     Two  vols.,  12mo,  price  $2.50. 

"We  have  here  the  most  charming  book  we  have  read  these  many  days,— go 
powerful  in  its  fascination  that  we  have  been  held  for  hours  from  our  imperious  labors. 
or  needful  slumbers,  by  the  entrancing  influence  of  its  pages.  One  of  the  most  desirit 
ble  fruits  of  the  prolific  field  of  literature  of  the  present  season." — Pomand  Eclectic. 

"  Two  brilliant  and  fascinating — we  had  almost  said,  bewitching— volumes,  combi- 
ning information  and  amusement,  the  lightest  gossip,  with  solid  and  serviceable  wig. 
dom." — Yankee  Blade. 

"  It  is  a  most  admirable  book,  full  of  originality,  wit,  information  and  philosophy. 
Indeed,  the  vividness  of  the  book  is  extraordinary.  The  scenes  and  dnecriptions  are 
absolutely  life-like." — Southern  Literary  Gazette. 

'•  The  works  of  the  present  writer  are  the  only  ones  the  spirit  of  whr«e  rhetoric  does 
justice  to  those  times,  and  in  fascination  of  description  and  style  equal  the  fascinations 
they  descant  upon." — New  Orleans  Commercial  Bulletin. 

"  The  author  is  a  brilliant  writer,  and  serves  up  his  sketches  in  a  sparkling  manner." 
Christian  Freeman. 


ANCIENT  EGYPT  UNDER  THE  PHARAOHS. 
By  JOHN  KENDRICK,  M.  A.     In  2  vols.,  12rno,  price  $2.50. 

"  No  work  has  heretofore  appeared  suited  to  the  wants  of  the  historical  student, 
which  combined  the  labors  of  artists,  travellers,  interpreters  and  critics,  during  the 
periods  from  the  earliest  records  of  the  monarchy  to  its  final  absorption  in  the  empire 
of  Alexander.  This  work  supplies  this  deficiency." — Olive  Branch. 

"  Not  only  the  geography  and  political  history  of  Egypt  under  the  Pharaohs  are 
given,  but  we  are  furnished  with  a  minute  account  of  the  domestic  manners  and  cus- 
toms of  the  inhabitants,  their  language,  laws,  science,  religion,  agriculture,  navigation 
and  commerce.1' —  Commercial  Advertiser. 

'•  These  volumes  present  a  comprehensive  view  of  the  results  of  the  combined  labors 
of  travellers,  artUta,  and  scientific  explorers,  which  have  effected  so  much  during  the 
present  century  toward  the  development  of  Egyptian  archseology  and  history." — Jour- 
nal of  Commerce. 

'•  The  descriptions  are  very  vivid  and  one  wanders,  delighted  with  the  author,  through 
the  land  of  Egypt,  gathering  at  every  step,  new  phases  of  her  wondrous  history,  and 
ends  with  a  more  intelligent  knowledge  than  be  ever  before  had,  of  the  land  of  the 
Pharaohs." — American  Spectator. 


S^j 

COMPARATIVE  PHYSIOGNOMY; 

Or  Resemblances  between  Men  and  Animals.  By  J.  W.  REDFIELD, 
M.  D.  In  one  vol.,  8vo,  with  several  hundred  illustrations, 
price,  $2.00. 

"  Dr.  Redfield  has  produced  a  very  curious,  amusing,  and  instructive  book,  curious 
in  its  originality  and  illustrations,  amusing  in  the  comparisons  and  analyses,  and  in. 
structive  because  it  contains  very  much  useful  information  on  a  too  much  neglected 
subject  It  will  be  eagerly  read  and  quickly  appreciated." — National  JEgit. 

"The  whole  work  exhibits  a  good  deal  of  scientific  research,  intelligent  observation, 
and  ingenuity." — Daily  Union. 

"  Highly  entertaining  even  to  those  who  have  little  time  to  study  the  science." — 
Detroit  Daily  Advertiser. 

'•  This  is  a  remarkable  volume  and  will  be  read  by  two  classes,  those  who  study  for 
information,  and  those  who  read  tor  amusement  For  its  originality  and  entertaining 
character,  we  commend  it  to  our  readers."— Albany  Express. 

"  It  is  overflowing  with  wit,  humor,  and  originality,  and  profusely  illustrated.  The 
whole  work  is  distinguished  by  vast  research  and  knowledge." — Knickerbocker. 

"  The  plan  is  a  novel  one ;  the  proofs  striking,  and  must  challenge  the  attention  of  the 
curious." — Daily  Advertiser. 


REDFIELD'S  NEW  AND  POPULAR  PUBLICATIONS. 


POETICAL   WORKS  OF  FITZ-GREENE  HALLECK. 

New  and  only  Complete  Edition,  containing  several  New  Poems, 
together  with  many  now  first  collected.  One  vol.,  12mo.,  price 
one  dollar. 

"  Halleck  is  one  of  the  brightest  stars  in  our  American  literature,  and  his  name  la 
Kke  a  household  word  wherever  the  English  language  is  spoken." — Albany  Express 

••  There  are  few  poems  to  be  found"  in  any  language,  that  surpass,  in  beauty  of 
thought  and  structure,  some  of  these." — Boston  Commonwealth. 

"  To  the  numerous  admirers  of  Mr.  Halleck,  this  will  be  a  welcome  book ;  for  it  is  a 
characteristic  desire  in  human  nature  to  have  the  productions  of  our  favorite  authors 
in  an  elegnnt  and  substantial  form." — Christian  Freeman. 

"  Mr.  Halleck  never  appeared  in  a  better  dress,  and  few  poets  ever  deserved  a  better 
one." — Christian  Intelligencer. 


THE  STUDY  OF  WORDS. 
By  Archdeacon  R.  C.  TRENCH.     One  vol.,  12mo.,  prite  75  cts. 

"  He  discourses  in  a  truly  learned  and  lively  manner  upon  the  original  unity  of  lan- 
guage, and  the  origin,  derivation,  and  history  of  words,  with  their  morality  and  sep- 
arate spheres  of  meaning." — -Evening  Pout 

"  This  is  a  noble  tribute  to  the  divine  faculty  of  speech.  Popularly  written,  for  use 
as  lectures,  exact  in  its  learning,  and  poetic  in  its  vision,  it  is  a  book  at  once  for  the 
scholar  and  the  general  reader." — New  York  Evangelist. 

"  It  is  one  of  the  most  striking  and  original  publications  of  the  day,  with  nothing  of 
hardness,  dullness,  or  dryness  about  ft,  but  altogether  fresh,  lively,  and  entertaining." 
— Boston  Evening  Traveller. 


BRONCHITIS,  AND  KINDRED  DISEASES. 

In  language  adapted  to  common  readers.     By  W.  W.  HALL,  M.  D. 
One  vol.,  12  mo,  price  $1.00. 

"It  is  written  in  a  plain,  direct,  common-sense  style,  and  is  free  from  the  quackery 
which  marks  many  of  the  popular  medical  books  of  the  day.  It  will  prove  useful  to 
those  who  need  it" — Central  Ch.  Herald. 

"  Those  who  are  clergymen,  or  who  are  preparing  for  the  sacred  calling,  and  public 
speakers  generally,  should  not  fail  of  securing  this  work." — Ch.  Ambassador. 

"  It  is  full 
stitinus  drea 

•'This  wo 
?nces."—  Nashua  Oasis. 


KNIGHTS  OF  ENGLAND,  FRANCE,  AND  SCOTLAND. 
j3y  HKNRT  WILLIAM  HKRBERT.     One  vol.,  12mo.,  price  $1.25. 

"  Thfy  are  partly  the  romance  of  history  and  partly  fiction,  forming,  when  blended, 
portraitures,  valuable  from  the  correct  drawing  of  the  times  they  illustrate,  and  interest- 
ing from  their  romance." — Albany  Knickerbocker. 

"  They  nre  spirit-stirring  productions,  which  will  be  read  and  admired  by  all  who 
are  pleased  with  historical  talcs  written  in  a  vigorous,  bold,  and  dashing  style."— Boston 

"  These  legends  of  love  and  chivalry  contain  some  of  the  finest  tales  which  the 
graphic  and  powerful  peu  of  Herbert  has  yet  given  to  the  lighter  literature  of  the  day." 


-Detroit  Free  Tress. 


RF.DFIELD'S  NEW  AND  POPULAR  PUBLICATIONS 


LYRA,  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 
By  ALICE  CARET.    In  one  volume,  12mo,  cloth,  price  75  cts. 

"  Whether  poetry  be  defined  as  the  rhythmical  creation  of  beauty,  as  passion  or  elo 
quence  in  harmonious  numbers,  or  as  thought  and  feeling  manifested  by  processes  of 
the  imagination,  Alice  Carey  is  incontestably  and  incomparably  the  first  living  American 
poetess— freah,  indigenous,  national — rich  beyond  precedent  insuitable and  sensuous  im- 
agery—of the  finest  and  highest  qualities  of  feeling,  and  such  powers  of  creation  ns  the 
Almighty  has  sern  fit  to  bestow  but  rarely  or  in  far-separated  countries." — Boat.  Trans. 

"The  genuine  inspiration  of  poetic  feeling, ...  replete  with  tenderness  and  beauty, 
earnestness  and  truthful  simplicity,  and  all  the  attributes  of  a  powerful  imagination  and 
vivid  fancy.  We  know  of  no  superior  to  Miss  Carey  among  the  female  authors  of  this 
country." — New  York  Journal  of  Commerce. 

•'  Alice  Carey's  book  is  full  of  beautiful  thoughts ;  there  is  draught  after  draught  of, 
pure  pleasure  for  the  lover  of  sweet,  tender  fancies,  and  imagery  which  captivates 
while  it  enforces  truth." — New  York  Courier  and  Inquirer. 

"  -Lyra  and  other  Poems,'  just  published  by  Redfield,  attracts  everywhere,  a  remark- 
able degree  of  attention,  A  dozen  of  the  leading  journals,  and  many  eminent  critic*, 
have  pronounced  the  authoress  the  greatest  poetess  living.'1 — New  York  Mirror. 


LILLIAN,  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

By  WINTHROP  MACKWORTH  PRAED.     Now  first  Collected.     One 
"Volume  I2mo.  -  Price  One  Dollar. 

"  A  timely  publication  is  this  volume.  A  more  charming  companion  (in  the  shape  of 
a  book)  can  scarcely  be  found  for  the  summer  holydays." — New  York  Tribune. 

"  They  are  amusing  sketches,  gay  and  sprightly  in  their  character,  exhibiting  great 
facility  of  composition,  and  considerable  powers  of  satire." — Hartford  Courant. 

"  There  is  a  brilliant  play  of  fancy  in  '  Lillian.'  and  a  moving  tenderness  in  '  Josephine,' 
for  which  it  would  be  hard  to  find  equals.  We  welcome,  therefore,  this  first  collected 
edition  of  his  works." — Albany  Express. 

"  As  a  writer  of  vers  de  sodete  he  is  pronounced  to  be  without  an  equal  among  Eng- 
lish authors." — Syracuse  Daily  Journal. 

"  The  author  of  this  volume  was  one  of  the  most  fluent  and  versatile  English  poets  that 
have  shone  hi  the  literary  world  within  the  last  century.  His  versification  is  astonish- 
ingly easy  and  airy,  and  his  imagery  not  less  wonderfully  graceful  and  aerial." — Albany 
Stale  Register. 


THE  CAVALIERS  OF  ENGLAND; 

Or,  the  Times  of  the  Revolutions  of  1642  and  1638.     By  HEURT 
WILLIAM  HERBERT.     One  vol»,  12mo.,  price  $1.25. 

"  They  are  graphic  stories,  and  in  the  highest  degree  attractive  to  the  imagination  aa 
well  as  instructive,  and  can  not  fail  to  be  popular." — Commercial. 

"  These  tales  are  written  in  the  popular  author's  best  style,  and  give  us  a  vivid  and 
thrilling  idea  of  the  customs  and  influences  of  the  chivalrous  age." — Christian  Freeman. 

u  His  narrative  is  always  full  of  great  interest ;  his  descriptive  powers  are  of  an  un- 
common order ;  the  romance  of  history  loses  nothing  at  hu  hands ;  he  paints  with  the 
power,  vigor,  and  effect  of  a  master." — The  Time*. 

"  They  bring  the  past  days  of  old  England  vividly  before  the  reader,  and  impress  upon 
the  mind  with  indelible  force,  the  living  images  of  the  puritans  as  well  as  the  cavaliers, 
whose  earnest  character  and  noble  deeds  lend  such  a  lively  interest  to  the  legends  of 
the  times  in  which  they  lived  and  fought,  loved  and  hated,  prayed  and  revelled." — Ntv- 
ark  Daily. 


REDFIELD'S  NEW  AND  POPULAR  PUBLICATIONS. 


CLOVERNOOK; 

Or,  Recollections  of  our  Neighborhood  in  the  West.-  By  ALICK 
CARET.  Illustrated  by  BARLEY.  One  vol.,  12mo.,  price  $1.00.' 
(Third  edition.) 

"  In  this  volume  there  is  a  freshness  which  pprpetunlly  charms  the  reader.  You  seem 
t3  be  made  free  of  western  homes  at  once."—  Old  Colony  Memorial. 

"  Thpy  bear  the  true  stamp  of  genius-simple,  natural,  truthful— and  evince  a  keen 
eonse  of  the  humor  and  pathos,  of  the  comedy  and  tragedy,  of  life  in  the  country  "— J 
G  Wltiltier.  J' 


DREAM-LAND  BY  DAY-LIGHT : 

A  Panorama  of  Romance.     By  CAROLINE  CHESEBHO'.     Illustrated 
by  DARLET.     One  vol.,  12mo.,  price  $1.25.     (Second  edition.) 

"  These  simple  and  beautiful  stories  are  all  highly  endued  with  an  exquisite  percep- 
tion of  natural  beauty,  with  which  is  combined  an  appreciative  sense  of  its  relation  to 
the  highest  moral  emotions." — Albany  State  Register. 

"  Gladly  do  we  greet  this  floweret  in  the  field  of  our  literature,  for  it  is  fragrant  with 
sweet  and  bright  with  hues  that  mark  it  to  be  of  Heaven's  own  planting." — Courier  and 
'Enquirer. 

"There  is  a  depth  of  sentiment  and  feeling  not  ordinarily  met  with,  and  some  of  the 
noblest  faculties  and  affections  of  man's  nature  are  depicted  and  illustrated  by  the  skil- 
ful pen  of  the  authoress." — Churchman. 


LAYS  OF  THE  SCOTTISH  CAVALIERS. 

By  WILLIAM  E.  AYTOUN,  Professor  of  Literature  and  Belles-Let- 
tres  in  the  University  of  Edinburgh  and  Editor  of  Blackwood's 
Magazine.  One  vol.,  12mo.  cloth,  price  $1.00. 

"  Since  Lockhart  and  Macaulay's  ballads,  we  have  had  no  metrical  work  to  be  com- 
pared in  spirit,  vigor,  and  rhythm  with  this.  These  ballads  knbcdy  and  embalm  the 
chief  historical  incidents  of  Scottish  history — literally  iu  'thoughts  that  breathe  and 
words  that  burn.'  They  are  full  of  lyric  energy,  graphic  description,  and  genuine  feel 
big." — Home  Journal. 

"  The  fine  ballad  of '  Montrose'  in  thia  collection  is  alone  worth  the  price  of  the  book.' 
IJostan  Transcript. 


THE  BOOK  OF  BALLADS. 
By  BON  GAULTIER.     One  volume,  12mo.,  cloth,  price  75  cents. 

"  Here  is  a  book  for  everybody  who  loves  classic  fun.  It  is  made  up  of  ballads  of 
all  sorts,  each  a  capital  parody  upon  the  style  of  some  one  ot  the  best  lyric  writers  of 
the  time,  from  the  thundering  versification  of  Lockhart  and  Macaulay  to  the  sweetest 
and  simplest  strains  of  Wordsworth  and  Tennyson.  The  author  is  one  of  the  firs! 
scholars,  and  one  of  the  most  finished  writers  of  the  day,  and  this  production  is  but  the 
frolic  of  his  genius  in  play-time  " — Courier  and  Enquirer. 

"  We  do  not  know  to  whom  belongs  this  nom  de  plume,  but  he  il  certainly  a  humorist 
of  no  commcn  power." — Providence  Journal. 


REDFIELD'S  NEW  AND  POPULAR  PUBLICATIONS. 


ISA,  A  PILGRIMAGE. 
By  CAROLINE  CHESEBRO'.     One  vol.,  12mo.,  cloth,  price  $1.00. 

"  The  Pilgrimage  is  fraught  throughout  with  scenes  of  thrilling  interest — romantic, 
yet  possessing  a  naturalness  that  seems  to  stamp  them  as  real ;  the  style  is  flowing  and 
easy,  chaste  and  beautiful." — Troy  Daily  Times. 

'•  Miss  Chesebro'  ia  evidently  a  thinker — she  skims  not  the  mere  surface  of  life,  but 
plunges  boldly  into  the  hidden  mysteries  of  the  spirit,  by  which  she  is  warranted  in 
making  her  startling  revelations  of  human  passion." — Christian  Freeman. 

"  There  comes  out  in  this  book  the  evidence  of  an  inventive  mind,  a  cultivated  taste, 
an  exquisite  sensibility,  and  a  deep  knowledge  of  human  nature." — Albany  Argus. 

"  It  is  a  charming  book,  pervaded  by  a  vein  of  pure  ennobling  thought." — Troy  Whig. 

"  There  is  no  one  who  will  doubt  that  this  is  a  courageous  and  able  work,  displaying 
feniu?  and  depth  of  feeling,  and  striking  at  a  high  and  noble  aim." — N.  Y.  Evangtlist. 

''  There  is  a  fine  vein  of  tenderness  running  through  the  story,  which  is  peculiarly 
one  of  passion  and  sentiment." — Arthur's  Home  Gazette. 


LECTURES  AND  MISCELLANIES. 
BY  HENRY  JAMES.     One  vol.,  12mo.,  cloth,   price  $1.25. 

"A  series  of  essays  hy  one  of  the  most  generous  thinkers  and  sincere  lovers  of  truth 
in  the  country.  He  looks  at  society  from  an  independent  point  of  view,  and  with  the 
noblest  and  most  intelligent  sympathy." — Hmne  Journal. 

"This  ia  the  production  ot  a  mind  richly  endowed  of  a  very  peculiar  mould.  All 
will  concede  to  him  the  merit  of  a  vigorous  and  brilliant  intellect." — Albany  Argus. 

"  A  perusal  of  the  essays  leads  us  to  thivk,  not  merely  because  of  the  ideas  which 
they  contain,  but  more  because  the  ideas  are  earnestly  put  forth,  and  the  subjects  dis- 
cussed are  interesting  and  important  to  every  one." —  Worcester  National  JEgis. 

"  They  have  attracted  much  attention  both  here  and  in  Europe,  where  the  author  ia 
considered  as  holding  a  distinctive  and  prominent  position  in.  the  school  of  modern 
philosophy." — Albany  Atlas. 

"  The  writer  wields  a  masterly  and  accurate  pen,  and  his  style  is  good." — Boston 
Olive  Branch. 

"  It  will  have  many  readers,  and  almost  as  many  admirers."— N.  Y.  Times. 


NAPIER'S  PENINSULAR   WAR. 

History  of  the  War  in  the  Peninsula,  and  in  the  South  of  France, 
from  the  Year  1807  to  1814.  BY  W.  F.  P.  NAPIER,  C.  B.,  Col. 
43d  Reg.,  &c.  Complete  in  one  vol.,  8vo.,  price  $3.00. 

"  We  believe  the  Literature  of  War  has  not  received  a  more  valuable  augmentation 
this  century  than  Col.  Napier's  justly  celebrated  work.  Though  a  gallant  combatant  in 
the  field,  he  is  an  impartial  historian." — Tribune. 


REDFIELD'S  NEW  AND  POPULAR  PUBLICATIONS. 


THE  MASTER  BUILDER; 

Or,  Life  in  the  City.      By  DAY  KELLOGG  LEE,  author  of  "  Sum- 
merfield,  or  Life  on  the  Farm."     One  vol.,  12mo,  price  $1.00. 

"  He  is  a  powerful  and  graphic  writer,  and  from  what  we  have  seen  of  the  pages  of 
the  '  Master  Builder,'  it  is  a  I'omance  of  excellent  aim  and  success." — State  Register. 
"  The  '  Master  Builder'  is  the  master  production.    It  is  romance  into  which  is  instilled 


portions,  the  witty,  the  grotesque,  the  pathetic,  and  the  heroic.  It  may  be  read  with 
profit  as  well  as  pleasure." — Argus. 

"  The  work  before  us  will  commend  itself  to  the  masses,  depicting  as  it  does  most 
graphically  the  struggles  and  privations  which  await  the  unknown  and  uncared-for 
Mechanic  in  his  journey  through  life.  It  is  what  might  be  called  a  romance,  but  not  of 
love,  jealousy  and  revenge  order." — Lockport  Courier. 

"  The  whole  scheme  of  the  story  is  well  worked  up  and  very  instructive." — Albany 
Express. 


GRISCOM  ON  VENTILATION. 

The  Uses  and  Abuses  of  Air:  showing  its  Influence  in  Sustaining 
Life,  and  Producing  Disease,  with  Remarks  on  the  Ventilation 
of  Houses,  and  the  best  Methods  of  Securing  a  Pure  and  Whole- 
some Atmosphere  inside  of  Dwellings,  Churches,  Workshops,  &c. 
By  JOHN  H.  GRISCOM,  M.  D.  One  vol.  12mo,  $1.00. 

"This  comprehensive  treatise  should  be  read  by  all  who  wish  to  secure  health, 
and  especially  by  those  constructing  churches,  lecture-rooms,  school-houses,  &c.— It 
is  undoubted,  that  many  diseases  are  created  and  spread  in  consequence  of  the  little 
attention  paid  to  proper  ventilation.  Dr.  G.  writes  knowingly  and  plainly  upon  this  all- 
important  topic." — Newark  Advertiser. 

"The  whole  hook  is  a  complete  manual  of  the  subject  of  which  it  treats ;  and  we 
venture  to  say  that  the  builder  or  contriver  of  a  dwelling,  school-house,  church,  thea- 
tre, ship,  or  steamboat,  who  neglects  to  inform  himself  of  the  momentous  truths  it 
asserts,  commits  virtually  a  crime  against  society." — N.  Y.  Metropolis. 

"  When  shall  we  learn  to  estimate^ at  their  proper  value,  pure  water  and  pure  air, 
which  God  provided  for  man  before  he  made  man,  and  a  very  long  time  before  he 
permitted  the  existence  of  a  doctor  1  We  commend  the  Uses  and  Abuses  of  Air  to  our 
renders,  assuring  them  that  they  will  find  it  to  contain  directions  for  the  ventilation  oi 
dwellings,  which  every  one  who  values  health  and  comfort  should  put  in  practice."— 
N.  Y.  Dispatch. 


HAGAR,  A  STORY  OF  TO-DAY. 

By  ALICE  CAREY,  author  of  "Clovernook,"  "Lyra,  and  Other 
"Poems,"  &c.     One  vol.,  12mo,  price  $1.00. 

"A  story  of  rural  and  domestic  life,  abounding  in  humor,  pathos,  and  that  natural- 
ness in  character  and  conduct  which  made  '  Clovernook'  so  great  a  favorite  last  season. 
Passages  in  '  Hagar'  are  written  with  extraordinary  power,  its  moral  is  striking  and 
just,  and  the  book  will  inevitably  be  one  of  the  most  popular  productions  of  the  sea- 
son." 

"  She  hns  a  fine,  rich,  and  purely  original  genius.  Her  country  stories  are  almost 
unequaled ." — Knickerbocker  Magaiine. 

"The  Times  speaks  of  Alice  Carey  as  standing  at  the  head  of  the  living  female  wri- 
ters of  America.  We  go  even  farther  in  our  favorable  judgment,  and  express  tho  opin- 
ion that  among  those  living  or  dead,  she  has  had  no  equal  in  this  country ;  and  we  know 
of  few  in  the  annals  of  Knglish  liternture  who  have  exhibited  superior  gifts  of  real  po- 
etic  genius."—  Th-  (Portland,  Me.)  Eclectic. 


REDFIELD'S  NEW  AND  POPULAR  PUBLICATIONS. 


CHARACTERS  IN  THE  GOSPEL, 

Illustrating  Phases  of  Character  at  the  Present  Day.     By  Rev.  fi. 
H.  CHAPIN.     One  vol.,  12mo.,  price  50  cents.     (Second  edition.) 

"As  we  read  his  pnees,  the  reformer,  the  sensualist,  the  skeptic,  the  man  of  the 
world,  the  seeker,  the  sister  of  charity  and  of  faith,  stand  out  from  the  Scriptures,  and 
join  themselves  with  our  own  living  world."  —  Christian  Enquirer. 

"  Mr.  Chapin  has  an  easy,  graceful  style,  neatly  touching  the  outlines  of  his  pictures, 


styl 
thought  and  depth  of  feeling."—  Tribune. 


LADIES  OF  THE  COVENANT: 

Memoirs  of  Distinguished  Scottish  Females,  embracing  the  Period 
of  the  Covenant  and  the  Persecution.  By  Rev.  JAMES  ANDER- 
SON. One  vol.,  12rho.,  price  $1.25. 

"It  is  a  record  which,  while  it  confers  honor  on  the  sex,  will  elevate  the  heart,  and 
•lengthen  it  to  the  better  performance  of  every  duty."—  Religions  Herald.  (Va.) 

"  It"  is  a  Ijpok  of  great  attractiveness,  having  not  only  the  freshness  of  novelty,  but 
every  elempnt  of  historical  interest." — Courier  and  Enquirer. 

"  It  is  written  with  great  spirit  and  a  hearty  sympathy,  and  abounds  in  incidents  of 
more  than  a  romantic  interest,  while  the  type  ot  piety  it  discloses  is  the  noblest  and 
most  elevated.'1—  N.  ¥.  Evangelist. 


TALES  AND  TRADITIONS  OF  HUNGARY. 

By  THERESA  POLSZKY,  with  a  Portrait  of  the  Author.     One  vol., 

price  $1.25. 

THE  above  contains,  in  addition  to  the  English  publication,  a  NEW  PBEFACE,  and 
TALES,  now  first  printed  from  the  manuscript  of  the  Author,  who  has  a  direct  interest 
in  the  publication. 

"  This  work  claims  more  attention  than  is  ordinarily  given  to  books  of  its  class.  Such 
is  the  fluency  and  correctness — rmy,  even  the  nicety  and  felicity  of  style— with  which 
Madame  Pulszky  writes  the  English  language,  that  merely  in  this  respect  the  talcs  here 
collected  form  a  curious  study.  But  they  contain  also  highly  suggestive  illustrations  of 
national  literature  and  character." — London  Examiner. 

"  Freshness  of  subject  is  invaluable  in  literature — Hungary  is  still  fresh  ground.  It 
has  been  trodden,  but  it  is  not  yet  a  common  highway.  The  tales  and  legends  are  very 
various,  from  the  mere  traditional  anecdote  to  the  regular  legend,  and  they  have  this 
sort  of  interest  which  all  national  traditions  excite." — London  Leader. 


SORCERY  AND  MAGIC. 

Narratives  of  Sorcery  and  Magic,  from  the  most  Authentic  Sources. 
By  THOMAS  WRIGHT,  A.M.,  &c.     One  vol.  12mo.,  price  $1.25. 

"  We  have  no  hesitation  in  pronouncing  this  one  of  the  most  interesting  works  which 
has  for  a  long  time  issued  from  the  press." — Albany  Express. 

"  The  narratives  nre  intensely  interesting,  and  the  more  so,  as  they  are  evidently  writ- 
ten by  a  mim  whose  object  is  simply  to  tell  the  truth,  and  who  is  not  himself  bewitched 

hw  «n»  fnvc  pb»  th<"irv  "  —  ff  Y.  Re<-f^^er 


REDFIELD  3  NEW  AND  POPULAR  PUBLICATIONS. 


THE  NIGHT-SIDE  ON  NATURE; 

Or,  Ghosts  and  Ghost-Seers.     By  CATHARINE  CROWE.     One  vcrf., 
12mo.,  price  $1.25. 

"In  this  remarkable  work.  Miss  Crowe,  who  writes  with  the  vigor  aid  grace  of  • 
woman  of  strong  sense  and  high  cultivation,  collects  the  most  remarkable  and  best  au- 
thenticated accounts,  traditional  and  recorded,  of  preternatural  visitations  and  appear- 
ances."— Boston  Transcript. 

"An  almost  unlimited  fund  of  interesting  illustrations  and  anecdotes  touching  the 
spiritual  world." — New  Orleans  Bee. 


THE  WORKS  OF  EDGAR  ALLAN  FOE; 

Complete  in  Three  Volumes,  with  a  Portrait,  a  Memoir  by  James 
Russell  Lowell,  and  an  Introductory  Essay  byN.  P.  Willis;  edit- 
ed by  Rufus  W.  Griswold.  12mo.,  price  $4.00. 

"  We  need  not  say  that  these  volumes  will  be  found  rich  in  intellectual  excitements, 
and  abounding  in  remarkable  specimens  of  vigorous,  beautiful,  and  highly  suggestive 
composition ;  they  are  all  that  remain  to  us  of  a  man  whose  uncommon  genius  it  would 
be  folly  to  deny." — N.  Y.  Tribune. 

"Mr.  Poe's  intellectual  character — his  genius — is  stamped  upon  all  his  productions, 
and  we  shall  place  these  his  works  in  the  library  among  those  books  not  to  be  parted 
with." — N.  Y.  Commercial  Advertiser. 

"These  productions  will  live.  They  bear  the  stamp  of  true  genius;  and  if  their  repu- 
tation begins  with  a  '  fit  audience  though  few,"  the  circle  will  be  constantly  widening, 
and  they  will  retain  a  prominent  place  in  our  literature."— Rev.  Dr.  Kip. 


CHAPMAN'S  AMERICAN  DRAWING-BOOK. 

The  American  Drawing-Book,  intended  for  Schools,  Academies,  and 
Self-IWtruction.  By  JOHN  G.  CHAPMAN,  N.  A.  Three  Parts 
now  published,  price  50  cents  each. 

THIS  Work  will  be  issued  in  Parts  ;  and  will  contain  Primary  Instruction  and  Rudi- 
ments of  Drawing:  Drawing  from  Nature  —  Materials  and  Methods:  Perspective  — 
Composition  —  Landscape  —  Figures,  etc.  :  Drawing,  as  applicable  to  the  Mechanic  Arts : 
Painting  in  Oil  and  Water  Colors :  The  Principles  of  Light  and  Shade :  External  Anato- 
my of  the  Human  Form,  and  Comparative  Anatomy  :  The  Various  Methods  of  Etching, 
Engraving,  Modelling,  &c. 

"  It  has  received  the  sanction  of  many  of  our  most  eminent  artists,  and  can  scarcely 
be  commended  too  highly."— TV.  Y.  Tribune. 


engravings  are  superb,  and  the  typography  unsurpassed  by  any  book  with 

which  we  are  acquainted.     It  is  an  honor  to  the  author  and  publisher,  and  a  credit  to 
our  common  country." — Scientific  American. 

"  This  work  is  so  distinct  and  progressive  in  its  instructions  that  we  can  not  well  flO» 
how  it  could  fail  to  impart  a  full  and  complete  knowledge  of  the  art  Nothing  can  vlo 
with  it  in  artistic  and  mechanical  execution."— Knickerbocker  Magazine. 


CONTEMPORARY  BIOGRAPHY. 


OR  SKETCHES  OF  LIVING  NOTABLES, 

AUTHORS  ENGINEERS  PHILANTHROPISTS 

ARCHITECTS         JOURNALISTS  PREACHERS 

ARTISTS  MINISTERS  SAVANS 

COMPOSERS  MONARCHS  STATESMEN 

DEMAGOGUES       NOVELISTS  TRAVELLERS 

DIVINES  POLITICIANS  VOYAGERS 

DRAMATISTS         POETS  WARRIORS 

fn  One  Vol.,  \2rno,  containing  nearly  Nine  Hundred  Biograph- 
ical Sketches  —  PRICE  $1.50. 

"  I  am  glad  to  learn  that  you  are  publishing  this  work.  It  is  precisely  that  kind  of 
Information  that  every  public  and  intelligent  man  desires  to  see,  especially  in  reference 
to  the  distinguished  men  of  Europe,  but  which  I  have  found  it  extremely  difficult  to 
obtain."  —  Extract  from  a  Letter  of  the  President  of  the  United  States  to  the  publisher. 

'•  In  its  practical  usefulness  this  work  will  supply  a  most  important  desideratum."  — 
Courier  If  Enquirer. 

"  It  forms  a  valuable  manual  for  reference,  especially  in  the  American  department, 
which  we  can  not  well  do  without  ;  we  commend  it  to  the  attention  of  our  '  reading 
public.'  "—Tribune. 

"  Just  the  book  we  have  desired  a  hundred  times,  brief,  statistical  and  biographical 
sketches  of  men  now  living,  in  Europe  and  America."  —  New  York  Observer. 

"  It  is  a  book  of  reference  which  every  newspaper  reader  should  have  at  his  elbow- 
as  indispensable  as  a  map  or  a  dictionary  —  and  from  which  the  best-informed  will  de- 
rive instruction  and  pleasure."  —  Evangelist. 

"  This  book  therefore  tills  a  place  in  literature  ;  and  once  published,  we  do  not  see 
how  any  one  could  do  without.it."  —  Albany  Express. 

"  It  is  evidently  compiled  with  great  care  and  labor,  and  every  possible  means  seems 
to  have  been  used  to  secure  the  highest  degree  of  correctness.  It  contains  a  great  deal 
of  valuable  information,  and  is  admirable  as  a  book  of  reference."  —  Albany  Argus. 

"It  is,  to  our  notion,  the  most  valuable  collection  of  contemporary  biographies  yet 
made  in  this  or  any  other  country.  The  author  acknowledges  that  its  compilation  was 
a  '  labor  of  care  and  responsibility.'  We  believe  him,  and  we  give  him  credit  for  hav 
ing  executed  that  labor  after  a  fashion  that  will  command  general  and  lasting  approv- 
al." —  Sunday  Times',  and  Noah's  Weekly  Messenger. 

"  This  is  one  of  the  most  valuable  works  lately  issued  —  valuable  not  only  for  general 
reading  and  study,  but  as  a  book-  of  reference.  It  is  certainly  the  fullest  collection  of 
contemporary  Biographies  yet  made  in  this  country.  "^-Troy  Daily  Times^^mi 

"  This  is  emphatically  a  book  worthy  of  the  name,  and  will  secure  an  S^Raed  pop- 
.  ularity."  —  Detroit  Daily  Advertiser. 

"  A  book  of  reference  unequalled  in  either  value  or  interest  It  is  indeed  a  grand  sup- 
plement arid  appendix  to  the  modern  histories,  to  the  reviews,  to  the  daily  newspapers 
—a  book  which  a  man  anxious  to  be  regarded  as  intelligent  and  well-informed,  can  no 
more  do  without  than  a  churchman  can  do  without  his  prayer  book,  a  sailor  his  navi- 
gator, or  a  Wall  street  man  his  almanac  and  interest'  tables."  —  New  York  Day  Book. 

"The  volume  once  known  will  be  found  indispensable,  and  will  prove  a  constant 
source  of  information  to  readers  at  large."  —  N.  Y.  Reveille. 

"  For  a  book  of  reference,  this  volume  will  recommend  itself  as  an  invaluable  com* 
panion  in  the  library,  office,  and  studio."  —  Northern  Budget. 

"  It  is  a  living  breathin?  epitome  of  The  day,  a  directory  to  that  wide  phantasmagoria 
we  call  the  world."  —  Wall  Street  Journal, 

"We  know  of  no  more  valuable  book  to  -authors,  editors,  statemen,  and  all  who 
would  be  'up  with  the  time,"  than  this."  —  Spirit  of  the  Times. 

"Men  of  all  nations,  creeds  and  parties,  appear  to  be  treated  in  a  kindly  spirit.  The 
work  will  be  fuund  a  useful  supplement  to  the  ordinary  biographical  dictionaries."— 
Commercial  Advertiser. 

"The  value  of  such  a  work  can  scarcely  be  over-estimated.  To  the  statesman  and 
philanthropist,  as  well  as  the  scholar  and  business  man,  it  will  be  found  of  great  con- 
renience  as  a  reference  book,  and  must  soon  be  considered  as  indispensable  to  a  library 
M  Webster's  Dictionary."  —  Lorltpart  Conner. 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


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